Thursday, October 13, 2011

all the way from neural (for Keith Higginbotham)

dish-wrapped shellfish clusters
gift themselves as trance, a
post-homogeneic facial crème
huddled shinily given
anemones you know
cucumbers you do not
like children, blessed
with no concept of other
kissing the fingers of a stale
where laundry hounds
the windows.

No comments:

Post a Comment