Wednesday, October 11, 2006

Dog Run

A place where walking

is akin to shifting names.

Not an escape, only

an erasing of the besotted lines

that criss and cross like arrow-spines

prickling the wood pulp air –

a cinder-hunt mined for flashbacks (naked

swimming, the lost transistor, a burning car).

Scent of when the wheat grew waist high

and you parted the way.

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is this real?