Monday, December 12, 2011

a murder of one

Everything is growing gray on the morning with The things we are left out for the weather The burlap of our skin laying ragged out with the frost  Long forgot all thing mold and rot in a yard left to winter Even the scarecrow wordless bent by the winds that laid us bare the months before  Reaching up with all aware only dark birds left to care in this empty winter air

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