CHRIS GORDON lost & found times 41 (1998)

January 27, 2012 § Leave a comment

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thick hailstones in April I keep swallowing my tail

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all these lights they’re humming uncomfortable in every position

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no continuous skyline the relentless efficacy of breasts

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behind the buildings the lake obscured by fog downstairs they’re fighting

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balled up in the shower her wet dress the soughing darkness

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wood smoke in the warm afternoon the deaf woman talks to herself

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she whispers in another language the intermittent rumble of the elevator

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a blue door tied down to the top of a car the smell of cut grass

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not much to say there’s a helicopter

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The Martian Chronicles read over the phone unsteady hand-jobs

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too windy for a hat sheets of newspaper slap the chain-link fence

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dream hungry the call of a crow on the telephone pole

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saxophone practice upstairs the machine fills with water

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in the brief blue flash of the train’s light on the tunnel wall abhor

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slowing down you can smell yourself

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