Tuesday, December 9, 2014

the silvery threads

(leg fog) distracted skull ea
ch even the midst not
tattered the quarry’s book
,scant and serious as if ,the
title-page im pulse ggaggging
down the scattered throat th
reads your spilled pages  )fog
meal(  before the court of
names ,forgotten shade
floated in the library’s
shredded breath older
than the wind older than
the sleep desk’s facts
in your pocket jammed
(fog mouth) sharp del
irious flowers ,face ,sh
eets ,esophagus danced
beneath the pinched fog
cus of yr water written
,writhen bleached miasma
clouds the tongue’s  )fog lens(
half face gleams ,sl
iced with b lack

With shreds of paper from Olchar E. Lindsann’s
excision-poem from his tale, The Bibliophage


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