Saturday, June 03, 2006


The history of a metaphor breaks down.

Morning, a leading up or running out
where the just-risen
from the worn-down)
forget the possibility of silence
(without preposition).

(without preposession)

“Am I too big?”
asks the box.

A metaphor rots.
History decays.

I can hear the helicopter in my teeth.

Post-production produces a post

then another

lining up to mark the limit  

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