Tuesday, November 03, 2009

the lapsus

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Overhead the heels. The right flank turning, the trouble trudging, and the spanking wet navy. Not wet like a drumbeaten peon,


she's held high the wax beam
bricklayers, and in her camp the soothing women of France cry storm hollowed meads, and
prayers work zigzagged by throngs of hafted widows. The touch of a dollar on the heel, the diamond
creep and flaw of love's bitter paste. Not glue, my flunky, but Jill knows better than to say true love is true.




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