Aug 122011
 
It seemed there was a reason
In the clay because of things we did.
The ground was moldy with reasons
As with wordy worms. 

The sky burned blue because.
Irrelevancy and vanity
Vanished vanquished in a hush.

The magician of days,
Svelte in becoming blacks,
Educed only

His own gloved, whited hand
From his mysterious sleeve,
Nothing more.

Chiaroscuro clouds
Meandered meaningly
Their grey, unsignifying shapes.

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