Saturday, December 4, 2010

Brine Sludge

Brine sludge rising in the sky. Rings.
Tether flap sighs unmoored fathom rudder
slivers. Starlings are beginning their bound inside
your hat plank. Hanging on a brain rung of my own
crystalline tide, I opt up and rather gloop
upon a bird umbrella. We find a branch
no one has named yet.

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