Wednesday, August 12, 2009

March: Year-day 68

March: Year-day 68 Coming as rain, the beasts, layer on layer clung to what they could, e.g., grasses, trees, telephone poles and wires until each mayor in his little town cried in his head, "Please, your heavy, brilliant bodies have destroyed already too much, branchesof trees popped-- I hear them yet, poles splintered, unemployed; flames arcing from bare lines; work patterns stopped." This morning, in the fair and cold, the sun (glinting what it kisses onswallowed fields and bushes and trees--trunks, limbs, branches, twigs too often spiking their pale insides up through the careless winds where the hard beasts' needs have bit them off with themselves) cringes, licks. -

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