Tuesday, July 8, 2008

January 31, everyday

I set myself up
on beams eaten with rot.
and tilt my head
in young dog eyes
listen to
the snapping What

can I become?

My comfort my home
my future accrued
sprawls on every
empty hillside.

Listen, as
I toss my dreams
to the Kingdom,
tied with fishing line,
invisible from a distance. 

Jan. 31 '05

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