An Evening At The Cabin
The mouths of the dead
are always open she says,
sighing in that way
she has of sighing.
She tells me to quit bitching
about all that stuff
and about congress
as well - no damn politics
tonight, not in this
cabin.
Flickering
light dances across my page.
I barely make sense
of the strange forecast
found in my reputable
list of axioms.
January 8, 2013 1:03 PM
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The chicken crossed the road. That's poultry in motion.