a revision
When we arrived back to our homes,
we spent hours imagining how we should
speak to one another after so long apart.
What we can make of the collections of
dust never seemed so simple before.
Subtle houses of the body—glass—
all different, certain architectures,
standing still amidst metal bullets.
A ghostly crew, sitting around on
white branches, the spread of skeletal trees—
things grown without us around.
Homes are fragmented things,
shining vessels strengthened by sunlight.
Friday, December 5, 2008
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2 comments:
Good thing the sun had never heard of Wood St.
That entrain is immaculate.
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