Wednesday, March 28, 2007

Maybe Some of the Topography Will Melt

the last of us (que lastima)
oh well, consider there
is no such (th)ought
and furthermore derangement pluses

our aggrandized selflings ouch
to pieces what we see in mirror
rubbed by hand signals
hola little pieface how be ye

(s)om(e) summer all the acreage
will have sweetened what we breathe
(not now) and winter will have seemed
abloat with level mimicry of seedlings

born to be collective nouns
bereft against insistent shoveling
and buses holding still
that we may know ennobled cleansing

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