Sunday, November 2, 2014

11.2 - NaNoWriMo

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I am confusing my streetlight and teeth, both swaying wild figure eights in the storm that is above--the one that borrows head for tunnel, whistling slate swells growling rotten upon exit like turned tide of Alice, her tears, the keyholed saint. Weights and measured--brain on car disconnected, heart bound to track getting plenty of splinters in her wriggles.

The windows and doors were left open and that with the wet beckoned moss--I was grown all over, confined to a room full of box, brine, used litmus and habits so worn their elastic bits could thrice hula hoop my hips. Lost thought in a zipper. When it gets dark stays dark no matter how high and might the sun.

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