Saturday, December 18, 2010

With My Sewing Machine

Outside the shroud we terse facedown, ham hock
in a broth, the cloud the beer. Speak of the sky lit dead
we fear in entendre. Chew the slap box and past
jug in a sack, wimpled the forth facet, same time
treacle your skinny line upon the brass plate. Lament
for the mute tongue. Drop plug and plant
ass back to the harder pew. Wait. Your silks fill
with embroider most.

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