Friday 5/11/2007 12:13:00 AM

There was a catapult in her grin. A guillotine between her thighs. Had I known her name I would've remembered it. Let it turn me like herbs do into them. The end always a storm adjacent to the start. The soft concrete in her sigh slowly hardening. It's a harsh metamorphosis from victim to villain. Rubbing those sticks. Begging. The fire to find you.

There are traces. Cold evidence of the crime. Truth swings in hammocks of sex. Content enough with the breeze that wakens. Those mossy tombstones. Those skeletons dipping into the breach of our skin. Answering all the questions we never wanted to ask. Dead bones dancing on the heels of sober.

Those eyes of pliers. Every tool. A face that has to lie to someone. Picking weeds from the tall grass. Folding the harvest in half. The hunger in hiccups. The words in the way.

As I try to tell him where it goes.

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