July 2006/Volume Seven/Issue Two
Ray Succre
A Thursday for Everything

He comets the
gravity of steel-toed boots and
swims home through commerce to
see her predate the clocks and hug him
like sounding horns around a dulcimer.

He collects and she is to gather him onto
a couch and blanket ten o’clock, loan him
all moments his, from her version of him,
all him, the
limp capibara hanging from her teeth.
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