Wednesday, June 8, 2011

Dreck for Wine

If you divide minty freshness by 12 inert poems, you have to ask why. When you season talk of mending fences with stunned walls and Joseph Massey in Arcata, you reel from pressure overheard by gulls. Gulls represent stations.

In the miasma construed from noonday muttering, you get to include dour in your faceoff. Vocabulary includes what we don’t say, Dr.

Later than noon inquest strops a razor but if cone, the function of twist in space, is emblem on a target field, simple words concrete.

Nothing dabbles as likely as 9:16 pm. Whose talking. Whose.

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