Friday, January 02, 2009

The economies of ice cannot be regulated without loss, without trickle. Pretend I melt a little, because you charm. Refreezing in a slightly thawed position, I find my legs awkwardly weak, thoroughbreadish, uncrossed. Sublimating, I overcast us all with the threat of weather. The dark block of me is a warning to cattle to huddle together. The ground is like a brick. The salt licks are taken by the deer for imitations. They look like bits of art.

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