Tile laps.

By groundpole

Hand marks stain your neck,
as if it’s your property
hold your breath while this bubble expands,
the river band plays softly along the child’s button,
hold me of this grandfather distance.

Wrinkled lips of what is this year old pie,
turn them away to form other signs of yield
merge on the next left,
holding a branch to ignite what the entertainment couldn’t hold,
a caterpillar is often bold.

Stacking of forms,
it’s like I wanted this day,
possibly it wanted me?

Making holes, it can be hooked,
evaluating the stacks of Manchester before it becomes bait.

Late inside of what any mother can hum,
that is the emphatic chess piece.

Even if a light can shine
it still won’t hide the whispers.

Tile laps.

Created: Jul 19, 2010


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