pincushion

severity, a cloning of senses
something tells me every good color is coming
every good way, the small parts and
long gorgeous rhythms that march life through
un-cold, clean and sharp like new bread knives
the way a voice happens, in spurts and breaths, moans
things that mark the sign of gentle momentary madness
washing over you.

these things consume me: your breaths, sighs
the way you move (i can see it) closer
than anything else better than any other one thing
and more.

2004-07-20 | 11:15 a.m.
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