Thursday, May 9, 2013


It is in the middle of winter-break
And is still worried about timing;

Like a retirement home it would stand.
Joy is not telegenic; its lips curl.

Like a chest filing camera-glass,
This went on for weeks, surging.

We lust all consciousness
But raced on foot till it moved.

In the underbrush like beetles of whiteout
It skips in its CD-R form--

So many more responsible nightmares.

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