Friday, August 22, 2008

Some things to sum up summer, somewhere.

Languish is not anguish of language, but should be. Shouldn't it?

None of it meant anything, except all of it, do you see?
One frightened mumblus of squirrels; the patchwork fields outside of town; the backs of barns, where most people never spot the rot. I drank oil, sang songs of worship, prayed to each of my false gods and all of my true ones for respite.

I darned socks, swam upriver, stole bikes. That's my confession.
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