Sunday, August 10, 2008
we are not children yet
make friends with the necessity of dying
as we are not yet children
and I can always tell you something good
let your heart serve her nature
and sand shall turn a rose
underneath a northern sunset
stand over a ladder and set yarn around the shutters
until the realtor’s russet nose turns tan.
the matador shared land near a stool and yelled
at men set level in a ready nest taking torture
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