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Swollen With Sun
The dog can poem, silly dance, raisin’s toy sinner with a top to spin around in. The dog can’t help her fur for wanting more, while Coffin Joe and Bradley Steptoe fall out of fatal sync. They three arm ghost figurines In whiter shoes to mix the room’s soup up with, lapping cold air bruises waves of lick and skin. Number one daughter, everyone is now slightly freaked apart. But as previously intercepted, there’s nothing out there I want without a firm sense of hypothesis and telltale traffic light stars. Ragged glassy bits will gather; cherry random hearts coalesce, summer seedless blessed. We spit the pit, or suck to toothless. It hurts to be the heavy ounce, but we must complete the catalogs. Please wrap my cabeza in red red wool and send me out among them. O little poverty, my own, my nest. |  |
