Wednesday, December 31, 2003

this is a poem
land, you grunt
taking garbage to
the dormer, I
said angels
when I meant
Mexican food
or sundry
Irish jigs
or the colour
after black
divided by
Christmas tree or
patience, you
see the
fade and collection
with 'my'
name appropriated
not an alien or
angel and
elves scramble with
tactile longing
but you see
the kind march
and effect
wearing a year or
timid nature
when glory
springs from
words or
you expect
to read
delight and
the next word

this work
brings sentences
to work

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