Wednesday, November 18, 2009

we met
at the back of my fist
the smell of the tar
lining the bricks
manhole covers were
the man with the sun-stained
picked the dirt from his nose

"I touched brain"

he laughed
and slept
the smell of blood
in his fingernails
that he filed down
with business cards
and butcher's knives

fine lines
crossed by dirty
wet socks

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