in the vessel of someone else's tailored shirt, the pocket ripe for unbuttoning, lint gathered at the bottom, a bouquet of discarded thread, fresh picked dryer waste hinting towards fingerprints and intimately regarded pattern-choice. if anyone were watching, had anyone noticed at all, against the chest of an unnamed man, the lint would dance in rhythm to the walk and vibrate through solar-plexus chants. a waltz for dead things in weary stalls.

09/16/2007

Posted on 09/17/2007
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