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by Indigo Tempesta

not even thirty degrees. i am flying.
unbloodied above pavement.
skin cakes off; power paid out
what wants.

embodied in paved future
in legs like pistons. not like --
legs are machines
and i have two, those
little stout things
i bring to each engagement.
we fury; we rout.

mechanical mutton; flock's
propulsion; designed to pace
with mad dispatch.

not to wander.

read a book, in this cold, or
something. god, stay indoors:
but stray a bit, outward,

look for ground, something
growing, grown, utterly
different. unlike, anyway.


Author's Note: oh jeeeeesus christ help me finish. "first sight"

Posted on 03/14/2008
Copyright © 2021 Indigo Tempesta

Member Comments on this Poem
Posted by Jared Fladeland on 03/15/08 at 02:24 PM

hmmm. maybe to tie back in all the things about legs, making a connection that only your legs can get you "there", wherever that new thing growing is?

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