Sunday, July 24, 2011

Cloud: Next Year’s Skull

Countless then settle the crablike fingers on a bicycle seat.
We’ve grown mean to after drift than burn at threads of a sentinel
string parting. It’s a plough roughening the lascivious pillow shade
are both wheat and a theatre shield. The harrowing waltz. Bathed.
But still the upward foams were piled the frilled in the wool
of dampen sheep road grain and wet of its once opened the widen
blanch contusion beyond even our own ascent to become
the marvelous design as if fluttering the bare upon the top
of a nebulous space beaten out of stone enclosures.

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