Sunday, February 26, 2012

Foot note

Memory moored in cargo net cradles
green eves, wood eyes
were all spectacles mine

My back, heavy with the perches of ghosts
all ways, dog-eared
in a pucker of time

My eyes widened by the marches of motes
touch worn. inhale
had we nothing to hide?

This stone, my chest, is a purchase of goats
for what else would you
before a god of eyes

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