Look over your shoulder for the hustle of words.

Saturday, September 29, 2007


The trolleys move as thunder;
dirty rubber on the glaze
makes lines of ants.

A white slip falls
like a slapped child;
tut, tut, pick it up.

A curtain hisses into life.
I am surrounded.

I shall die inside my cupped hands.
No-one need know;
I will prop my muscles carefully
with sticks of smiles.

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