Tuesday, November 15, 2005

Foot Path (taken down by the Exxon then turned back following the scent of #2 pencils)

Dogs can smell you coming
and see hands hidden up sleeves
taste nerves
they know how burnt fingers
leave lost impressions
no trace of having grasped
well I'm glad something can see
through table soaked in cream
didn't trap your heart
can't let this season breathe

Cold down to these painted finger tips
not worth near what they sold it for
can't quite grip this illusion
suspicious eyelids blinking to keep
the light out in turn
and that's not liable
to get too lost
nothing a good sextant can't fix

Sand paper makes for friction. I don't have a
thick hide,
I don't scratch, I just mark
migration, drastic charred
foot path
worn like gold crosses lazily,
just a fact that gleams
off your shoulder
just your shoulder
where I lean my weary head
a drop of dew on ivy

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