Sunday, August 06, 2006


The stillness of the room*
Is like an empty womb*
Waiting for me to vomit into it*
The monotone of the fan*
Stirring in a cup of air*
Perhaps pure silence would be more poetic*
But away the crickets chirp*
If I were by the lake tonight*
The frogs would sing summer carols*
Of godlike storks that left*
Vees and other letters trailing*
Wakes; the vortices spin noiseless.****


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