Tuesday, December 13, 2011

I think I might need to have a lie-down,
not my normal self at all

Winter's root impinges
fogs the shrapnel in my hinges
Ferrous filings dim the millwork
filling to its fringes

The bray of abrasion
chronic, deranging -
A tinnital whittling
of pig-iron ore
hogged in a heap
on an earthen floor

Dustly shards detach the rasp
lungward bound on an annexed gasp
Rusting splinters drill my rind
galvanic as a chigger's hasp
a suffuse bind
The curdled sinter
freely sifts
into my sluice of mind.

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