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Angles, Tones, and Bones
In the ditch today among the autumn leaves like a rat—
Such an earthy folk who can't seem to be drawn
to the right things; they go in their own way together—
There was a human body splayed catastrophically across
smelling of old death and rot—it was putrid; I felt the need
that I'd get out for sake of my air when the sound came.
Nearly as quietly as echoes I myself could ever dare to release
it came upon the road and stopped and waited with
my baited breath we together were in this stench and
I couldn't move, all the bones stood still among us forced
with good reason to be there and stay quiet—now alone together.

My heart was lifted only some small measure when the painted dog
with his posture indicated in the subtlest of terms a sense
of not wanton rage as I would have presupposed but instead
bare hand outstretched somehow knowing we were all there together.
We exposed our bones and nodded grimly towards one another
and I asked him if he spoke in angles or in tones
in my shameful foreign tongue of angles. And at first he cocked his head
aside upon which an expression of confusion rode across.
Nervously I began to repeat myself, this time in my broken tones
his ears perked up and he answered "I will speak in tones,"
Yes, for the first time—I breathed.
One of several pieces I wrote earlier in the year. Since I can't really show anything from or say anything about the work I'm doing at my internship, figured I'd post these.

An experimental bit of poetic writing from Alexa's perspective.

Annoyingly, DA doesn't accept .doc files, so the formatting is probably a bit crude. You can find the .doc here: [link]
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October 12, 2012
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