Men with spirit minds live behind the city
Babies row the open river
White cats slide through green gardens
Women with washboard voices rise behind our ears
They use an umbrella like a small sky
She hammers clothes like a folk chant
They lick cigarettes like finished plates
Their half grown eyes never see too far
He jabs his motorbike in the ribs
The day falls gently off its axis
mar 17, 09
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