Tuesday, March 27, 2007


no war remembered how our hands held
or if the green sun was for growing
or growing rain. There are numbers
I cannot understand and a glass hum
like saucers tilting away from
from oceans. A disc set
to spin as tires clear and darken.
Machine wreaths ringing halos
that clasp and sharpen
palms to palm-arrows
mining chime-shattered lines.

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is this real?