Wednesday, August 12, 2009

March: Year-day 65

March: Year-day 65 Can't think, my lights going brown and brown, black, the toll of the ice storms mounting past thought while hands reach anxiously for candles brought from a storeroom somewhere, a dead bee's sac, fires for each hall providing us a track of vision, a sanctuary charm, caught as we are without electric, distraught yet giggly, so suddenly peeled years back. First I, then Mark, turned the register's crank: room charge, tax--the x read of zeeing out, then the z read, and the x read again, zero after zero, proving the bank, the mechanical day, was full about, balanced to nothings by the hands of men. -

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