Desperate to tango with trees.
Easy peelers: a book of tan lines.
Fake it till you make it. / Politeness has no place on a uniformal face.
DIGEST: Work in Progress.
How long does it take to walk?
An hour with a broken heart.
And without?
Couldn't say.
A romp aria (silk flag sighing) spewing up the moon.
New directions for the seedy windswept weeds / Nude erections in the sweet weeds seeding.
A soft scoop impulse for chunky dummies.
Clowder chowder (cat cream soup).
The heart has bunions that the soul sets its pumice tongue to. Both ache to smooth the other; disputing difference; decrying distance.
Open often leads to empty.
[Beginning with the sound off, with a mute memento, I hold my breath to send away the sigh.
Checking for contact, clicking for starred eyes, for little gold glimmers, however clumped with lazy cheer.
With dread I step a little further across the line, no excuses now, each nudge may be the last, the one to trip the switch.]
Late ghosts inherit the wind. The inner garden: too weedy.
Pale eggs and greasy buns: A dream drizzle; two narrow legs escape.
Life does not end on time, the dots still splutter.
Life: As seen: As was.