Friday, June 25, 2010

An Old Recipe

to be sure, he was flakier
than a buttered biscuit,
though twice as toothsome

sweeter than the fragrance
trumpeting from the honeysuckle,
yellow and white, banking the

highway, the pits in the
road only an occasional

shanks mare, for miles, in
the sun, the shimmer over
black tar, and she melts, melts,

away to a puddle

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