Friday, October 23, 2015

The Hunt

You barked at my song
as if you had found me treed
with luminous eyes
shining in the moon,
gazing down at you, fur all
fluffed in fear of this
damn predicament.

I tell you I am not there.
You see your own ghost.

March 4, 2011 4:32 AM

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The chicken crossed the road. That's poultry in motion.

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