Nipping at high heels

A whole philosophy on the pot.
My summer is my winter.
The calendar I reckon by
is whole or half cradled
by little days I amount to.
A whole fact of being squat.
Thirty days might count you
into stacks of your face one
day and another the next,
ransacked in a witch’s mirror
that all mirrors ever were.
If no mathematic of swirling
little things swirling around
little things were ever ugly,
no little thing was ugly in sight.
Days were only a holding-place
how dead was to formaldehyde.


~ by Jeremy on June 28, 2012.

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