CHRIS GORDON Ginyu 3

December 31, 2009 § 1 Comment

ECLIPSE & RECURSION

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she makes her point the wet tires passing outside reach us

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the fall and the round the sloping green “your only friend is this thought”

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the grass drips into the hydrangea air my loose ardency

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beneath your weight on the sticky couch the smell of bleach

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Dido translucent like rice an accumulation of minor cruelties

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five crows meet on the roof next door we don’t know you’re pregnant

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voices from the grade school the sink filled with shifting leaf shadows

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a memory of our collective death your conduct disorder here

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in from the rain I smell like a dog the folds in the pink napkin

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fork tines not the actual sensation

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the barren spindly trees where they overlap I’ll meet you there

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filling with spiders your shoes darken inside to the toes

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will the plague end this winter three times in the direction of the moon

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silver in the dusk eucalyptus leaves the sidewalk narrrows

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