Thursday, August 31, 2006

conditions

Each day is impossible as I fight with contours.

My horizon breathes its narrow fog, as militaries hedgehop by day.

Dusty trees tremble in darkness.

Silver-plated clouds and tiny craters slip stones into my mouth.

Here I wait for breaks at sea, cracks in holes made by language.

I am a stone at the bottom where each word will be stolen.

I could head for the pale yellow distance or die in repetition.

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