Clitch, clitch, deep notes of anise, tongue made a bowl for mouthwash...roll deep in recall, play tapes to knell the rank of bells in your chest. Gather the first sleet in cupfuls of the hand, and cave your chest in to accomodate the pillow to clutch. Deep tones, ringing at your neck-bones.
Clitch, sleet pinging at the light—have left the window ajar. Place and lash the tongue in a bowl of mashed fennel—wipe teeth with your thinnest finger.
You ate leaves at autumn’s close, and now they settle to clog your chest’s basin. Out from strict peripheries now—saucers of mashed sleet. Dream, severe exposure on the roof. Dream, bright tones—a hand washed in sleet.
-2004
