Wednesday, December 28, 2005
The torchlight defined an axle through the dust.
I cleared the baggage, and stood at the sheer drop
of neutrality. A cup had arraigned its fingers
on the shift. And we pleaded the evidence within
our respective spheres. Bright tonal clusters hammered
the quarry. We saw her face pucker-up against
the inner wall. Her eye sockets brimmed a leeched form
search engine. I put our tongues out
to taste the light drizzle. A wasp cone mumbled
its forthright mud consonant where my boot flexed.
This is that brainchild. Its membranes become a crisp
mathematics before I can talk. The ghost
in the answering machine. A syntactic history
bagged and tagged. There is the map of her hand;
its arborescence descends into the suburbs.
Her magical nail: the polish off the particle stream.