Look over your shoulder for the hustle of words.

Saturday, May 16, 2009

Wharf

wind skirts the wharf
locks me up in whirling
circles, circles.

lost as I am, girl, speck
a sugared dot on earth
the dirt rises

two soft eyes blink out,
a head of curled fur.
nesting leaves, thoughts.

travelling through the glass
I push my hands out.
the air. oh the air.

paper songs, brief singing.
your poems fall silent;
all I hear is flat
flattered notes.

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