16 October 2009


The sun whispers into a void of water.

The wind swims through the tongue of ache.

The moon's breast waxes cool and bare
but there is no milk. 

These moments we say are ours 
are storms in a sky of going going     gone.

My fingers cry the shadows.  My hair
sleeps its ways into the forest bed's dream.

PROMPT: Magnetic word tiles selected on the basis of what appealed to me that day. (I have LOTS!)

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