2004-05-08 - 1:13 a.m.
A diamond was found in a bowl of oatmeal near a plum tree outside london.
Several thousand years worth of stale air were blown away by a plum breath, blowing over lizard milk and rotten pearls, sweeping away teacups and drying a tear in the corner of my eye- which didn't know it had changed.
Has it really changed? Or is it the earthen tide of your feet that covers things in themselves and makes them die for you?
Still chasing your foot, mad for circularity, mad for smallness, you look inside and see no trees. And me in my night of broken clocks, my sour milk stomach and death-looking mind, I don't do much, my hands short like ice cream cones, my eyes holding as much as they can before the tears come. They don't come as often as they used to with their moving vans to take everything away, take it to some salvation army or other, cover it with some dusty carpet, leaving nothing behind, nothing, only a small light I will hold in my useless hand.
Have I been sweet, have I held air for you and warmed it in my mouth? Have legends of starlight formed in my breast and nestled in my lungs like sparrows, eager to fly to whichever tree you now inhabit?
