Sunday, January 05, 2014


A maker of bright things, with dimming vision,
crashed through the paper-mache of my self-wall,
and the sidewalks rippled like mirage
with the spell of her genius had entered nature,
and today the beaded vampires who devour plastic and not flesh
to push back curtains threaded by cold
and burst innocent lava of thin floss
will rise around me
finding her needles open
grey marbles bubbling from a crack in the head
shining inverted sky for its imperfect instruments

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