Monday, April 9, 2012


We're children mis-wielding the tools
with which our fathers forged the world.
They're off, all corpses driving coffins toward the sun.
O'er bitumen! The oily wheels, the duct tape reality,
paces me along with them. From the
enameled trees, umbrageous, light lined and
ageless, we speed away.

- W. C. Smith

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