Saturday, April 19, 2014

Came upon, and a synthetic origin just then
perpetuated one question after
the next question. I was finished until
yolk yellow of the marginal sun

brought home light. I was your unexpected
dust made whole again,
and you did not know my name.
I preferred the bass tones,

almost rigidity that brought them,
the one you dance with, to, upon
with some refractive smile that enters
back stage without primping.

Do you time arrival of the husk
he calls voice tone before learning
worship thin then constant and
replenishing as much as cradled mood?

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