Saturday, July 14, 2012

Your Little Death Pamphlet

It smells like cool slices of mountain,
Cantilevered, interlacing wood wings
Braced by the heavy arcs of streams
That root through flowering slopes

Artfully concealed by mats of clover,
Countless abandoned, minuscule
Fallen parachutes of cottoned pollen
And thick necklaces of leaves.

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