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June 14, 2004 - A poem about Senses

Slow Burner

The neck of a cigarette
all shimmer and promise
straw dry in the stifle
of the hottest day.
It pretends, to shade
char of stone-dry bones
ripened under heat
from waring sun.
Mirage of sweetened air
and slow blood cooled,
the lead footed and weary
follow this shadow’s lure.
Today, I imagine this false wind
and curl up as old parchment
to stop myself inhaling
the tinderstick splinters
of its powdered air.


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