CHRIS GORDON Masks No. One

June 22, 2014 § Leave a comment

 

Lack of distinguishing features our new term for missionary zeal

 

Enough heat to possess a scent in the sweepings a blue stone

 

The nothing to say places they loom above the weeds

 

At some point in our conversation you took off your shoes

 

Spiders settling in where my habits wear away the edges

 

The wet spot on your pants has dried a school bus underground

 

Set on fire the brief history of prosthesis it smells of iris

 

Fastened by a tangle a strand of hair cuts into the apple peel

 

Some days we hide in the vowels the sprinkler leaves a few weeds

 

 

 

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