Tuesday, December 25, 2007

“Hell it is, Pop” version 4

Ever more beautiful wounds
the diamond burns.
But the stitchers thread

a cure for this gap.
The river wavers
because the viewer wobbles?

The head’s its own snake.
Let her climb letters, shine down

feathers light-fingered ladies
lift. On older wings men drift

three many thousand falls,
eight ending hundred feints.

Across a range of lines,
the plots families draw,
knots overlap ridges, acres in grudges.

Good road but cracked with green.
Earth girded by goodbyes.

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