Saturday, April 28, 2012

Hinged the Hearse Pot

Her husband is a cannonball
disguised with the pigeon
tealeaves he brought. It
unfold blank a troubadour
epidemic. We take off our
shoes, whereupon her man
scuttles to a window shade
with his Yorkshire prayer
booking via back hand.
The whole place lifted as
with heavy smoke and dark
shapes for warm faces to
make lump noises. Visitors
to turn pale pink, gruesome
little hedgehogs. To be bust
open at tobacco pouch seam.
They are chained to matches.
But in my face a light to look
of foreseen circumstances.
Her husband have a large stew
pot. She has in pieces of clingy
silk laid out on her backyard.

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