a project of skill-less and dead-author labor turned dead-text turned dead-reader, love
affair with space, some cloud to influx information without regard for human eyes. &poetry
Monday, November 10, 2014
Held My Wrist There
points to that dip, an inch in,
points to the person, place, or thing
that held a little too long, a little too pressure
just a little thing in the beginning, with
some time can break into blues
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