Thursday, September 21, 2006


slope black fog. her straddle opens pinafores and reservoirs to contemplation. what she means is escape. I recognize her scraps, the parchment fibers clinging to her lips like cilia, filtering. galvanizing. I didn’t expect her uneasiness about the alabaster icon. breasts heavy like wet snow. heaving lilac like cement. I don’t know her, but she is. me(n). she doesn’t know anybody, which makes her mysteriously translucent. run to meet her. meet her. swimming in pulp, swimming disaster so difficult to read.

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