Friday, October 22, 2010


Lungs are the forests of the body, pegged

At the bleeding edge of a sponge: an image

Sandwiched between broccolis of meat.

Lungs are lawns pocked with bunkers

Radiating out from the heart of the club house.

Lungs are El Niño, Beelzebub, Singapore Sling.

Lungs are a chameleon. Then they’re not.

Lungs are a decision tree.

Lungs are a drop of dye dropped

in a glass of water. Lungs are the tip

of an iceberg. Not. Lungs are your internal air bag,

useless in a crash. Lungs make you

a wine flask. A blushful Hippocrene.

Caverns measureless to man.

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