Tuesday, February 13, 2007

bronze impulse

Sky. Clouds, down.

Data CDs, puddles, up.

spray, hairdo under the trees - february haze - collects -


     you are not sincere,
     I can't stand your voice.
     If it was my choice
     we would not be here.

You are not sincere, you're broken and scrabbling in panic, you talk words but it's a long roll of excuses and to head me off


spray, say syrup ;-
hollow-chinned tureen

copperbeaten temples, prise it, thumbnail along the seam, hinged sherbet-cup. Similar to a clock inside, gears cogged at 90°, an oily rag in the lid, eyes staring, up.

the sky plane pastry, marked by a cooling-tray



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