Monday, January 14, 2008

last round out

a web of metal parts
holding hands and hearts together

fused by the heat
of an innocent habanero

the french quarters
each prick into the corner

a choice between roads
wet and shallow

like graves of sand
at the bottom of a satchel

my boon is forthcoming
in yours and his last fought

winner takes to fall apart
and my bank account to fill

silver will do.

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