Thursday, October 21, 2010

Curator of syntactic chunks of sound

Men in suits are born in the way crows stalk and speak
behind the mullions of glass walls and dust motes. Three crows

study my gaze as they gruff through  the dull saturated hues
of smoked glass at dawn and through chevrons of resting moths.

Please; no more hope from me. The gift is not befriended here.
Agnostic breathing moistens the hall-dutied glass at the early of the day.

This lecture hall dries the tongue and the heart. Three
brothers forage the track practice fields every morning. 

Their dew dredged meats cannot hop, cannot skip, and
cannot fly. Even katydids are stropped into submission.

They are frozen like locked odors and the vacant eyes
of students. Sudden of the hunted stare, the gaze and

The panic of sophomore girls on Friday mornings 
amidst the tired teachers hoping to have no hope. 

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