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Wednesday, March 08, 2006

Trophy

A face awash in white
Veins drained of the fervent red
Trunk drawn into fetal form

Mock, mock, it is written in the air
Its taste, dingy rock salt
And perfume, essence
of nothing-


Consideration, not withstanding
The evident, apart from a picture window
Saturated in transparent misdirection,

Hard as granite, a place to rest your laurels
A baton with which to bruise
A trophy to hold

*note / original title The Air
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