Plain American Language

I cut a sliver/of WC William's finger
and placed it inside/my philosophy...

Friday, January 11, 2008

Poem 11

I imagine two cyclists on the Carretera Austral

After so much rock, one keeled
over & curled into
a fiddlehead. The other

blew rust,
a violin song.
They throw rocks

and wait
for death
or a passing car.

If you throw water on them
they'll grow:
there's a box with a virgin

and a few ferns.

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