Turn over in this dry light, a brittle thicket, congested and full of nonsense. The days are full of nonsense. The papers, thin with run-on lines of battle, bruise, battery and bright sky. This life is full of nonsense. The back and forth of rubber on road, of door to door to desk to door to dream. What if dream drew out the nonsense, peeled skin and noisy flesh to reveal some sort of golden? What if the crowd of blood and vein of breath the color of change, stood still, to inhabit the nonsense, break up the gutter trouble and set the days on fire.



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Categories: Writing

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