Sunday, March 15, 2009

Sitting At The Counter

Close up.

The lips are flat, but brightly coloured. Soon they will purse together or be licked. Then they will inflate and glisten.

Lick.

The faint smell of sour milk, morning mouth and aged breath. The mouth is waxed and there is the memory of waking and of sleeping limbs made new with sex.

A goal.

Thought about but not spoken or written down. It is dressed up, but looks dull to the mind.

It is taking effort today to knead possibility into dough, to bake it and serve it this evening.

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