Another Day, Another Dolor
Thursday, August 18, 2005
FIVE PHYLLA
The nude in the forest, worst
of breed, eyes me, like a fly,
in facets. The bear, eating cold
clammy fish, sniffs
us -- or the camp provisions. We hear
the fish, his water run away, cry
with ears of heron, coughing notes by
rote, a drill. Then the nude’s tongue --
hot, moist and curled -- snakes out all our curses.
of breed, eyes me, like a fly,
in facets. The bear, eating cold
clammy fish, sniffs
us -- or the camp provisions. We hear
the fish, his water run away, cry
with ears of heron, coughing notes by
rote, a drill. Then the nude’s tongue --
hot, moist and curled -- snakes out all our curses.
posted by Michael Andre # 10:55 AM 
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