Sunday, September 27, 2009

The Deep

A reflection blinds a gardening correspondent. Shade requires a starting point.
The elementary particle makes to leave and its extremities fill.

Aliens write in puns we now know are curly fries. Drive-up windows make
this clear.

War with its lights out eschews imagination. All our buds lost their heads in the
flower of their youth.

So we got this apartment on Jockey Street. They used to race houses there.
But we're not going to jaw about Ovid or the rosy steps of mother, her
microscopic brand of honey. We expect you to understand.

See you over the next hill.

-Michael Gizzi