Makes accelerated thumping,
the dressed-up honey-sunbeam
takes the rest of days and lays
it headlong against my carapace.

We slow down here;
we bend our ears
toward the ground
and listen loud.

There are no real memories
in the foam, but just above it
hover fragrant movies
of two cotton swathed magnets.

We know out loud here;
we are aware of a truth
that does not need physics
to prove what it is.

06/04/2008

Posted on 06/05/2008
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