Or when the door opens and tender fowl fill its cracks with rice pillows, and beads condense in the passing light. Someday, I was the child of the whetted brick, and when I awoke the cathode ray sharped. I parsed the antenna's path from the cold of your theatrical silks. Can you remove the coil from the roof, my sweet? Hand me a surgical glove, and we'll know of sparrows crossing through the static. They may find us in our amber stasis. How much longer will I need to wax my scars for the record? How much longer will I need to paint the wax onto the bottom of the sailboat? Where will I keep the earthenware vessel from the grifter's delicate words? I know he'll figure me out one day, and I will hand it over gladly. And I will not sell him hot stones for his kiln unless the taste of the sparks turns a gibbous moon in the fire. Someday, we will dismantle this place and twist Fuller's earth into a basin to capture the many things that crash at our feet. Amphoric sounds from gestures of the moon beside the meadow; a bloom of Chrysanthemums. The whale is beneath the sailboat. The tiger is my birthstone. I wander the Round City of Baghdad. I'm so happy that nobody knows me. |
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