As/Is







12.17.2003



Snow webs a sky past morning. Don't know how to feel about the fact that you don't cry for me anymore--guess I deserve it, but the dope dwindled, the lesions on how we love stand out like strict sentinels. I'm just trying to stop my head. Snow erases the sky, the mud, the smoldered trees long lipstuck to vinegar, and how could I ever deal with the surprise of you, gone now for months but surfacing and steady in my mind, ululating like light itself trickles distant sugars, a gumdrop moan? Tall Palestinians need industry publications. This is All Things Considered.