Friday, October 17, 2008

the morning has antlers. water on the backbone.

it sings laceration.

a cat named speedy who used to jump on the counter when I was doing the dishes. yellow gloves over hands. stitches in the water along the same spine.

the continuing oxygen. intention in the way you picture a face. or the way it comes to you as a surprise.

all the other faces rising as one as the train approaches.

inside a boy bends forward, his hands clenched behind his neck. he mumbles something none of us can hear.

seven a.m. is school uniformed. another breath of stories for the receivers watching it come like it was never there.

oxygen slips in with the key, knocking it down. an easy reading of the lucent.

on brittle mornings my only response to the soft spots is take them in. a hymn for the lights in any chest.

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