Too many eyes, too many mouths,
we can have none of that.
we can not have any
imagination or folly
on this chilly sunday
in the midst of a hellish spring

its grapes wrapped in frost
the flickering tongue wrapped around
the plum, delicate sheath

of trees limp and leaning
as their roots have dried up and
soot covers their driveways

an ashy volcanic collection of snow
flakes

in the house
infesting

everything

04/23/2007

Posted on 04/24/2007
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