4/8/11

4.8.11 August

that place in my head
    a mixed up nursery rhyme of
    color and scent
closes my eyes when the order ricochets away
against dust of what was once brick and stone
    or all that time spent alone.

There is none to call after me
just the breeze at my back
a simple wind with complex thoughts
carried away
clawed away
but I didn't listen and turned
and burned
   but just a little.

So here we are on a sloshed up pier
full of pipers
and peepers
my heart so tiny
but beating
    in rhythm
with spiders and speakers.
I have eyes all over my head
and sentences made up from no milk and less bread.
I see what I see and do what I do
but who am I
   and
who are you?

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