Wednesday, January 24, 2007


The sound is a reflection.
The sound is a burden.
The sound is the sunrise in an orange streak.

The peak is a curve and a bell.
We are all listening and dying.
We are deaf in the streets with
lights as lines of script in our past.

The script is a poem.
The past is a poem.
This poem is a poem.
The sound is a poem
made of water and fog.

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