Friday, February 19, 2010


frigid soot path
it may be the Moon, it may be Mars
in whose tunnels
we percolate
in Sogdiana

wherever concrete is being broken
the card falls face up
old but well-oiled weaponry
abhuman runes mark
space destitute of meaning

there is something haunted
in this choice of ice or rock
in dim flickering light

Scratch Beginnings.

Difficult languages.

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