Friday, July 07, 2006

maybe it was your fingers

those rows of felt         marks into wood
      steps from where you grew things (I think squash or another large
            shape )

hard to peel

it was fitting       a bird called it       it marked the end of the day

            it wasn't born for this
    the still still


our drinks sweat through our pants

onto our bare knees


Post a Comment

<< Home

unique visitor counter