Wednesday, April 01, 2009


Holes decorate the path, tiny drops
of polystyrene blowing tickets.

Little is luminous,
the dry is turned.

Lay aside the gods for a minute,
they've no price but may require it.

The end of the work song
burns itself, stained with open-ended nights.

Recycled sheen smells of the chemist’s lamp,
anaesthesia torn from the spine.

How an interior tears a door into words,
water drains inside a dream.

You must slip stealthily into the ventilator,
the market will be normal after that.

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