Sunday, February 08, 2009


On the bench.
Words were dripping to the floor by the bench,
away to anyone who cares to notice.
A little pool of words, meeting of thoughts,
and fingerprints of a chubby little girl.
She wishes she would curl up and wake up
as a butterfly, an artist
the magician at the bench.

She sings herself out.
(to whoever who cares to listen)

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