Wednesday, July 22, 2009


Above these clouds, bright sun
Warms a bed of wafting cotton,
Gilding it like the
Bedspread of a king.

But down here, grey ashes fall,
Soaking all of the scurrying
Rodents and dustbunnies, and
We never look up to wonder.

We stoically slog through puddles,
Muddy deep, sternly focused,
Relentlessly isolated and
All mildewing from inside out.

Sometimes I want to just lie
In the rain, let it pour down
Till, like Alice,
I float away on the dormouse's tears.

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