Saturday, March 21, 2009

Credit/No Credit

What warmth
is honed to an edge on
what whetstone

These're the cuts
I live by, blunt bubbling
of crowds athwart

That shrouded
thing with shroud-like skin
furnaces along

in shuffles, or
don't you mark such things
with a little hiss,

or don't my
hungers go amiss, change
places, and repent,

doesn't the body
pitch forward into the cold
places, sharpening

itself, a bubbling
of hungers redoubled,
brought to bear

What's carried out
when I scorn the struck match,
seize cheaper fuel

Don't / you / do / it

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