Tuesday, January 23, 2007


it was winter, or we
imagined it was. water
made of ice, lit leaves
and salt smell, dirt.
incisors shaped
slowly by frail
spines, commas
held and bowed
the way we bring
two bones together.
Vane and afterfeather
stroking gold, unwired
hutches -- a history
of emptied ribs, cotton
spun to white ecstasy.

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is this real?