Tuesday, March 13, 2012

My Tell

Old shack. New shack. New country for trees. I put my finger in my ear and shake a song. The snake shakes, historical mimesis retracts, envelopes us in pink and slothy pleasure clouds. We are all the mice, skittering over the body of a sleeping woman with dark unruly hair, dreaming of a nest. Narrating mindfulness goes something like falling down a hill. All your happy bruises feel connected.

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