I’m caught in the avalanche,
pinned down by the staccato
machine-gun image onslaught
of you.
If you were Cuban, I’d understand.

I can only capture meaning
in the clouds of feeling
in the air,
a searing wind of sentiment.

I think the speed of sound has
Just become variable,
measured by degree of epithet
you’ve sprinkled in my ears.

03/09/2008

Posted on 03/09/2008
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