type slowly.

lost boys.

Posted in words by Lara Crombie on December 29, 2009

Rabbit dash, behind you. My lame heel and flesh on flesh. The excuse is brilliant, I want to go home.

Until dumb luck, we wash, rinse and repeat. Fairy godmothers avoid the stench of age, ours stopped believing.

That’s you and me. Fat containers, cold cuts, an extra charge for shipping and handling.

The French say qui vivra verra. I wrote stories hung from rafters. Ends, as loose knots, suggest temperance. Truncated.

Forgive the process. We fingered winter hatchets, in plural: “he chops wood for fire” while she finishes two thoughts…

Waking up. Or, growing down.

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One Response

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  1. Ralph said, on January 2, 2010 at 3:43 pm

    love this one


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