Wednesday, December 16, 2009

Random Objects.

The vase sits in a room made out of glass.
Frost whispers on windows. Winter, and the sun
Drifts through the trees and falls on the very
Windows in the room. The sun is cold as ice. It burns like

Three deer wander into my yard. I put the deer pellets
In the bird feed last week, their tongues roll out of their
Mouths, nostrils move up and down. Fog reaches three
Feet in front of me.

She said you shouldn’t leave your scrapbook on
The gray porch. She said aliens are sometimes real.
I say what kind. She says nothing. I am alone. Poe
Warned me about it in third grade. He said I wouldn’t
Live past age 50, I have light years to go, but you make
Me want to sleep. Sailors in ancient ships flock graveyards,
Robert, Melanie, Deran, Patrick. They all told me to get lost. I said
I never was in the first place.

Party on Tuesday. You put your hair up nice,
And move the clock to the windowsill. The window hums.
The wind slams the front door shut.

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