Capitulated pigeons press heaving breasts against the fryer, deeper and deeper into the sightline held captive by retreat. Dancing in the streets strays far from the other side, taken down and combined. Seeps through the water works, works water through the harder stone first, second known element all sown in straw, rich saws cut less trees planted deep, still steeping for keeps. Streets paved themselves without healing directions, cantor crammed cans is the only place home. Blue bottles contained only smoke, broke in the gut, bled soot, stooped too low, and got caught. Hands off. Tandem sights rang twice, opened light holes in the floor. Let in the roof. Let out the flood. Can't keep it entombed for the life of me. Chilled on ice dipped in visions; sweaters laced with cantaloupe, pressed firm against the felt, spilt: soft fuzzy juice down your throat. Split sideways from the direction one of us was facing. No contest. The handle gripped the hand old man hands handed over the sands (many grains grown small with time, broken down soft glass) shattered like neighbors in the night, still young with all omissions.
THREE APRIL TWO-THOUSAND-TWELVE
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