Monday, August 26, 2013

Roger That

Spring fed by the dirge of the platelet
shifts, ringed in gold, so a peach hangs
from the curlicue necklace of the embalmer.
Letting the gravel crunch where it dips
into a vault of lipids, hankies of raw
silk. Slithering into the cosmetics on
volcanic misery. I stoop into a cheering
section hidden from the crowd. Let the
storm clear before we feed the petunias.
Roger that, and so we continue in a vaguely
satisfying way all the way to Florida.
Ringing the shore into view from a machine
built from the low milk of the aqua-tree.

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