Meadow flashes by, framed by duskwood. Someone speaks too loudly. Prattle gnaws on our calamity napkin. Bongo beating, dicks batting calfskin. A mouth, wrapped around a microphone, quiver with thick sound. City closing in, slits of sky peering down. A park turns to blood. We speed into the sunset.
Sunday, August 19, 2007
Traintrip
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