Tuesday, November 10, 2009

the voice

The voice say no good good clinamen climatis. Of these gold there is nothing but air. Of these choirs, the bees, the string of connected. Around its paper the world caught its breath. No one dares , you hear this, Mona and caring past any result huff over the ridge.

This will be air, and roam. It's the stir cup vat of the looming moon, and the molecules sing the page of your heatlh. Rearward and rewarding the darling socks, the column reaching further with each spine stop along her grilled way. Catching her breath .