Tuesday, December 7, 2010

201 - 210

crescent moon

not a missed mark, arc

through study of slivers we

reach understanding

neutral translator

hardly. you soften her words

like milk on broke bread

winter skeletons

trees white knuckled branches

snow lace parasols

old man, you disappoint

but friend,' my heart sinks,

'what good's a tugboat on a

ship filled with water?'

by gone i mean done

like a stone's polish finish

end of an era

(trapped) your hair ensnares

soft filaments, i give in

a spider's envy

early that winter

that morning, goose bumps took flight

on your hand's light breeze

surfacing from depths

your hip bone crests the surface

the exhale of whale

stray gray hair,

loose white wire. old house with an

unfinished attic.

straight from the cloud gate

gallops of rain turned gallons

troughs emptied of thirst

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