Tuesday, October 17, 2006

Recombinant Cometoid

Too late a bit, couched in gills
Hard fish the morning sneeze

Commingles to the dust in sun
Like particles before time.

The trees play birds to rock-star
Proportions, one flies red away

Then the shaken leaves, coalesce
Into the mower, motor and engine

Revved to make the sky flinch.
In the sound grown out of darkness

A fuzz to face the light like
The imperceptible register on the amp

Still turned on, the show is coming
To memory across a fractured mind.

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