Wednesday, November 11, 2009

Frame

This instant- one in which I am. Ploughed under colours
mixed in blue of cornflowers chipping wind.

Light cuts open the afternoon.

Air has all of water none of its density, the way the thick amongst us
lumbering fields at all hours. There's the soil again. Vulgar tufts.

Thick brown granules washed off corpses consumed at their roots.
All the while, his skin not the colour of dirt but of sandstone
beautiful ochre genitals of salmon. So his only love rose.

I ran out to it and to sea. Right to the edge of distinction
furrows stiff as peaks. She a petticoat- he a lady's tailor
She a cauldron upturned he among the damned.
Walking.

Romanticize the life birds lead. Plunge dreams off
summer balconies. What may bloody asphalt
never the more forgives its quarry.


Gwendolyn.

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