Thursday, March 10, 2011

New Days

Interpret dots of muck.
Muck, I like that word.
It rings outward in waves
like Big Ben would.
Drooping with flaws.

I work now, at a
Mahogany table.
Glass all around.
Cubes of it. I have
to alter my spacing

for Yale professors
and Argentinians. I
must not dance too
loudly.  I am sad.
This year's notes.

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