Tuesday, January 11, 2011

A Cloud. A Marauder


My tongue makes the noise/Of a thousand flies./I close my mouth/And try to dance/A minuet of proper gestures./I watch my porcelain self./There is a cold, steel pin/In every joint.

But I will also tell you this:/Behind the bars of my ribs/There is something about to sing./Someday I will be/ warm milk/Poured out in the night.

-David Budbill


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