As if to make it harder to
accomplish the dot, the sphere, it makes it sharp, nearly indecipherable in it's glowing praise of balance, rythym ads a t or y or i when I talk on the phone - quickly she blurts. But red lines mean nothing added but dots, artistic skirmishes in the mind - remedies for orange cones we avoided, when we stayed within boundaries that allow new construction. And it is, positively a dot - to make it hear by this time - never in a hurry of course, though I tracked your sense of history - where you were when you were most productive - buddy. Now it's clear that art wins. Dark as night it comes onto my page, seeing white, seeing nearly a frame, diagnosing an altered state where it's faster, nicer, tacky, bright. Now, then, nearer, far - then we'll take, another gross, outlet, for making tea, bags that are about done, stores for fragrance, making it seem a sense of light. © 2013 Larry Ingram
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Welcome to the poetry web site of Larry Ingram. Larry is a poet, writer and observer of our culture. Categories
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December 2018
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