Thursday, September 17, 2015

The spring is a yawning hole

post-apocalyptic situation wherein all that works is a DOS command
they'd call you technologically proficient for engaging a raw prompt

the whole mouth, esophagus to gut, throughout which flora undulate
is the center you carry forward, ever acting on behalf of or to palliate

and as if swallowing yourself you tumble into a hoary spelunkee
and to greet you lie the others who can't turn their choices around

"It's a shorter way of saying Illinois."

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