Saturday, June 9, 2012

the rough sketch of an inability to write

there are no words to eat
the city is barren
I can't see anything

lost to

to bricks

this world in the morning
is a quick heat
and feeling nothing

perhaps only a need
to be lifted up
by my hair

but what do I know
of this immaculate season?

finding things from within
is murk, like river bottom
and the last sip in the glass

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