more twitterage

She’s a diamond
in a drill bit.

He was fired
from her life
like a baseball
from a corked bat.

Harvesting poems
from earth,
one run through
by the pitchfork.

A stately depression
it reigned for years.

Bow tie pasta
thoughts of cannibalism
Charles Osgood.

He remembered
the faded outline
of her voice.

cloud shadows race
bowing wheat stalks

Venus de Milo
itchy nose.

Worn tombstones
the dead
lose their voice.

piercing voice
on a spring:

The smell
of change:
ripe socks.

White spider moon
at center
of cirrus cloud web.

Since ignorance
passes for knowledge
I have hope.
cupped between
two shadows.

I scatter words
on the floor
hoping they bloom.
No soil.


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