Saturday, November 29, 2008


A cold fugue

balances a shiny taste

of the new, on my war

with the old;

the should takes over

where there is no want,

& I have faltered again

& again

in silence

on warm stones

to picking the ground

with a battered stick,

the ant moves relentless

and swift,

finding no breadth of space too big

it diminishes

in the noon light.

there was a space of time

to stay warm,

and with this

A cold fugue

makes war,

the softest parts of me

bleed to end

the fragile figure

of life beneath

the wind-

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