Words wet down quaked and shook
Not just their meanings you see
Their sly syllabic shapes which might cost a degree
Caught hiding in the Garden for the Buddha
With a long still knife orange in March’s freezing rain
Vision has an eye without a mark on the face
Scrabbled neatly on a page and throwing off no senses
Tense princes went lame just reading these words
Tumbling after like Jack
Polio of the sentances
There was no time to stop right here
Monday, March 04, 2013
tear, pilgrim
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