Monday, February 6, 2012

Paper Thin Morning

Each of these days seem
somehow separated,
disconnected and unrelated
to each other.

Squeezed in between
waiting to happen, wanting to begin,
and the litter and spillage,
the tipped over paper cups
of an event I can't remember
or interpret.

You're some kind of ghost story,
your hollow head, your thready pulse,
your paper thin discipline

Not really floating
so much as falling

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