Our daydream spills from my gold head, breaks free of my wooden neck. Left a nod over sleeping waves like bobbing bait for bathing cod floating flocks of candle swans, slowly drift across wax ponds. The men all played along to marching drums and boy did they have fun behind the sea. They sang, ‘So our matching legs are marching clocks and we’re all too small to talk to God. Yes, we’re all too smart to talk to God.’
Posted on Wednesday 23 February 2011.
2 years ago.
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