Friday, November 5, 2010


i buried your words
in my throat,
with faithful irrational-ism.
they have parched,
making me cough
with your pulse

the slivers
left in the open
like blank canvas'
sheltering all our
with a hammer's grace

the words
will -eventually-
make their way out,
in crumpled napkins
shadowed under
a cupped hand-

left idle
-like idolatry-
caught in the act of
sleeping alone in
a wastebasket linger.

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