by Caswell Macomber
Sunday, January 20, 2002
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Contended from the metal arms of your face.
This pottery of dreams walk through my trace.
Upon this bright fall itís really dim
when thereís a call of bad leaves.
Kettled in this shot like a rock.
I streak the walls, never hoping to fall.
But Iím rapped in the shyís that are tall
in THAT glasses of a dream. It seems
itís a half left like the worst kind of cleft
On my heart.
Watch the rain start in this train
that has no lights. Has many frights
Once you joke or drink the wrong Coke.
You lose sights.