Tuche & Automaton

Tuesday, December 12, 2006

Early Morning Improv

a cusp of solar gas
heroic sentences that halo your head
bury my cries for you
sparkling rings of your palate
only to stay here
shorn, dancing in spasms
blossomed in showers of
new liberties sleeping
cherubs in our midst
atolls on fire paint sadness
with a feathered mouth
numb, soft water dribbles into
beastly shoulders coupled in flight
fragments of prickly music
still waiting to be born
the pressure of espionage rife
within a lady once known
like symphonies that casually vomit
into eyes elegant, entangled to
local sleep, song and tears
alive in every detail

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