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I live and die by some stuff

Friday, December 3, 2010

Machine

Perched high on my
silver mountain
the blood lined linens
are spun with the
plumes of purple peacock
feathers they weather the
whethers or not in their
maytag container. Soaked
spun washed warm with
the ungaudy bleach they
come out pearls. Shiny,
spherical, white wonder
worn out.

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