Monday, June 13, 2005

Wild Star

You roved in the screen grass knees in meadow-grass rough-welling old kettle older trysts.

Before, rubbery slid down the soft clawed Kaffir Fig banks to the path where they were waiting for you. Help me up,dear.

YOU ARE IN DANGER OF BEING SHOT. You pissed timidly at the edge.

There isn't a soul left here. Get home. Call someone. Admit yourself.

The grasslands lined up together the complex archways most developed. Exploration hasn't begun.

The sun came down and suddenly turning a corner fired a white screen at your face the lorry's tail-lights in snow-blind you braked braked.

Her fingers were hot and damp you were young she just had an American University pulled over her perfect you kissed and spoke French.



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