Sunday, September 12, 2010

A whir

Minute twinklings,
zombies unharmful.

Hairs on a pillowcase
wash in the machine;

whirring playfully
as in a dance

from a night before
when Nantes played.

Trumpeting choral
reefs speak together

in harmony of hair
product unknown.

Sanded, glistening
chips from fossilled rock.

An un-lonely evening
still spatters my face with grin.

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