Tuesday, November 29, 2011

chapped lips, wind, 24 degrees outside

the neon lighthouse beams of

the oatmeal factory

string me home

I alight on sidewalks

let my footsteps flutter like moth wings

and carry me to the closest light

light here, light there

the streetlamps along

the sidewalks:

bread crumbs someone

has left for me, all promise

but no warmth

just put me in an
oven already

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