Tuesday, October 18, 2011

poem || David Jalajel


any number of obscure old mountain
ranges from having their freshwater spread
too far defined by smart tags on the dotted
line beneath a text alerts you when
and where spooled strings of surplus work lights start
to glow along professionals providing
papers on the judiciary's rules
require each party to the case with certain
claims to ascertain the terms they want
omitted and black boxed a little to
the left brings down your large green plotting sketched
right here your checkered chin and fingers muddied
through a hundred yards of concrete culverts
deliver into their most hidden heights

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