Saturday, July 28, 2012

a curtain of wet plaster

hangs in the air

someone's nightmare of summer

presses down on us

while heavy leaves pull down their branches

to form an arch

over the passageways of wandering ghosts

drown in the vast crypt of the city

and moving without effort

through the stone channels

of what their interrupted lives have become...

dank as if dirt and rock and root and worm

titivate in the foul grave of air

around the fading spark of all awareness...

Content (c) 2008-2012 Philip Milito. All rights reserved.

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