Thursday, July 8, 2010

One Every 24 #19


Femurs knob the crop rows of the bone farm
The phalanxes of the bone farmer caress
Skulls, I have never seen as grinning
At the gate of radius and ulna, its hinges of patella
The bag of charms you mouth speaks nothing
About luck: some things fall our way
Some things shatter.

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