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November 14, 2009
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Sorrow minded and trickling down a hallway,

he fits leather into linoleum; sterling rubber on its way to gold.
There’s a purple on the fabric and

the night is a centrifuge

circling and circling and circling.

(Stars pressed to the sky:

bugs on a windshield.)
Volcanically skirting by tar and houses,

the yellow is closing in:

(schools of underwater canaries

nipping at my wings).
But now the water’s moving downward and

the birds are beak-up.

Nights like these have a habit of splitting,

(layers upon layers upon layers)
Beyond the grass and the glass and the bulb and the blood

there is a fire.

You just have to spin a little faster to find it.

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