April 29, 2011

The bus and box have locks and clocks...

with the slowest kind of arc, stars turn seasons in clear cold nights and young leaves after slow soaking rains, as if they know like crows at night, black dollopy huddles holding sleep still, that right now the sky marks space in curves that don't quite finish or sit completely in line, the divide much like a long second in an unfinishable molecular half-life, is always waiting somewhere for taps to be played before Dawn gets her ride back home...

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