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Tuesday, May 18, 2010

off the cuff / poetry jots by Andrew Burke

whistling without charts
I air my tongue
airs and graces of
a leftfooter’s choir

all language metaphor


silver wakes

fence dotted like
manuscript with
white snails

small autumn regatta


biting into an apple
hanging off a tree
in weather
written juices on skin

bought and sold

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