the pulp of my past br decays in the lines of my palm br br and if my mouth shuts up br because of somethings unswallowable br such as bitterness and unbearable sourness br br i then think of you br br nights of unease br as frequent as the rain of december br and because of coldness and feelings of br wet rags and moldy shoes on the rack br br because of all these br and in a few steps towards a line of bushes br a few glances of clouds and horizons br br my hopes are lost as clumsily and br irreparably as br a stone rippling its way to the seabr br RIC S.