Monday, August 19, 2013


Some kind of bird-vomit,
in which a galaxy is stirring.
Each star is a worthy year of torture.
The ground is giving way to mantle,
blades of grass rustle in a false infinity.
Societies on triangles of broken eggshell,
pebble-planets scraping,
a jagged edge.  So many bodies
made to laugh that this arrangement can happen.

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