The Weather in the Womb
Autumn is head down in the sink. The trees taste iron and wren droppings. Oh my rustic plectrum! Your music is where the leaf falls.
Where it falls the river hums like a PC.
Take note of the ice on the water trough in the yard and the Eskimo oil from deep sea fish caught by a bear whose coat is a lichen of silver-tipped hair fuzzy as alkanet.
There is a God and he dwells in the perfect horse dung on the bridle path.
Evening is the hardest skin we carry.
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