Friday, January 4, 2013

In Contrast

Murder of Crows, strung out across the naked trees;
A raucous strand of lights.
Or more like the plump black olives on my
cousin's fingers at every family party.
A lick of wind, sends me hints
of why they gathered.
Plotting mischief,
and with their inky pitch,
make the whiteness brighter.

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The Bun

The Bun
If you don't like rabbits, you can suck it, shove it and then go soak your head.