a radio tower emitsred mosquitoes likestatic in the young earand this morning isa breadcrumb rollingon a windowsillacross the courtyardthe wind throughthe screen plucksan ocean with thislandscape's blisteredfinger stumblinginto the room at the topof this particular hillwhere the high sunsplinters throughtrees like threadsof a straightjacketand all the cloudswe believe in
"clouds to believe in" by Tony Iantocsa
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