Sunday, 17 February 2008


In their minds rickshaws still toe mud,
salts tilt athletic for the gold drive
hardest at bottom highest—
flush to the blank
forging silhouettes in every step
for the blood to bloom again
for the burbs not budging,
blurbs taken curling, aloft
stay, why not… for the suite,
the slim man and window
—hey that's rent—
lights the fuselage
hollows the skies
for a leaven landing
folding down the wind sock
a knock out of brick and walker cartographies.

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