By The Light of the Silvery Silvery
Goodnight, mud by the thousands
of whatever unit they measure mud by;
you can't move through it without missing
the angry bleached light
of unusual. A bubble of humidity
forms above everything, and is
scratched open by the frictions of
machines moving
and human energies.
Hope dies and I
shake off the excess water,
spend a half hour crafting some opening
statement, but only giver her my coat
and say It's a gift. For me, she says,
eyeballs floating to the top of the eye,
and I can't speak, but hand-signal: Victory.
- Mike Doughty (from Slanky)
Posted by Chris at 12:07 AM | TrackBack | Email to a friend
