Monday, August 25, 2008

Untold Story

The men and boys entered
the van like molecules in
a nostril
becoming a scent.
Something there, thoughts
heaving like gypsies,
crouching at the edge of
the pit. Matted
hair, teeth, bone, and sweat.
A crushed feather marks
the page. Charactery of flight:
chiseled dollops
of whipped-cream over
an illuminated glacier of light
with three-volume wind. Paper
struts being solidly
ambivalent as scripture. Stories shout
like cones of smoke blowing
from the men; while the boys breathe
like bats curled to sleep in the pavilion
of your ear.

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