Every pareidolia

To take, to interrogate
the motes once smoke alone
now between lonely mouths
cleaved to one killed by width
then stretched and racked
by noise noise the clucking
of industrious heads that
should roll to each other
since deaf do not listen
is the work of bored God
tall as a toddler or inside
or being with music of coos

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~ by Jeremy on January 3, 2012.

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