Tuesday, September 1, 2009


They're pouring back in, the whole world,
Done wandering and organizing
The hours into a place-mold,
As waving Scorpio's rising.

The crouched boxes let them back in:
Humming heads numb, stiff legs undone.
Latched in, they won't be seen again
'Til a birdbox squawks up their sun

And it's down the blood-stream again,
Goaded to organize the bore,
Waddle through another command;
Long done in, return to their door.

Crouch here, so blushing Atlas sees
How burdens that hold up the world
Are maintained when their dangling keys
Bolt shut behind them days wrung old.

Crouch here, lower than this hunched box
And drink from their reviving pools:
Flickering blues through blinds detox,
Washing away exhausted rules.

So blue through bolt window's cover,
That plugged bare into those sources,
Ponce De Leon discovers
his Florida and Stevens his,

Yet flows to fizzle in the street,
The long of the night won't regard,
These flickering blinds, darkness eats,
Holding its better sense apart.

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