truce: the humid handshake

By | 1 July 1998

thunder in the border lounge
the carpet runs for cover
the apricot armrest wears
its amputation like an official
decoration, say the order of
australia, the bathroom
of the failed statistic steams
like a fragrant wonton
where are the rusks, here’s
the superglue to give
the toffee apple its
orthodontal gloss; the bow
of the world touches its
seven toes trying to find
direction, now that
the haystack monarchs
are sniffing at their
pyrex futures the proof
lies in the oven

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