In my town there are frozen clowns. Mules clip clopping through footsteps past. Poised, the clown waits, and in waiting he works, quarter by quarter surrounded by Quarter and ghosts, the lost and the delirious. Waiting under balconies, they peer out and in, through iron clad windows, bated to explore.

This entry was published on June 15, 2013 at 9:49 pm and is filed under Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.

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