Tuesday, April 19, 2011


my other voice is a bottletop
blown over

the white scribble of jets
in a pail of water

my vow to you is always
to catch your sighs

my other voice
is a handsaw, drunk

on the breaking
of days

deserving of praise and anaesthesia
the sun blinked off

x-d out eyes and the sketch
of a skirt on the wind

drawn into a plain pine board
with a felt tipped pen

here’s where to begin
blind as the dirt

where the din of your mind
can steer toward the quiet

of the cooling board
i woke up this morning

how do you reckon
hurry, hurry

the salve will settle
the skin, the sun

knows better than to blink
back on again

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