Tuesday, September 12, 2006

Needle Box

Pin, you were the worm who holed
the whole begining, web-work pinched
and honed from the pollen, the loosened
tubes stiff with cider. What juice you knew
became my antlers, shedding skin.
All through the weather, musk
on the bark marking our dotted line
incisions. You say the fog keeps you
from me. I say it's the clocks, winking
like shoveled asphalt sugared with salt.
Such selves, our temporaries. The sting is hot.

1 comment:

Julie Choffel said...

Just found this site & saw your last post--that you're in Cali now--and wanted to say welcome to the west coast! Let me know if you're ever in the bay area and want to grab some coffee/beer/sun!

is this real?