Monday, 14 May 2012

Touched By A Hand Not God

have you ever felt that rush, the tessellated touch
of an automatically written block a
brush with something hidden, yet so gripping,
five finger burned wristing, unable to arrest
the spillage of verbs jacked like a hammer
until warm pools draw the cracks,
the canals of Mars inverted,
a cardinal flush onto the splintered weave of flax

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