Saturday, January 01, 2011

Untold Story

The men and boys entered the van
like molecules
in a nostril becoming a scent.
Something there, thoughts
surge 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 spread
across the glacier of light
with a three-volume wind; the paper
struts 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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