by Brian McCloskey
Waves fold behind villages. The wall is strong but a stone fell out of the wall. I can't believe your head exploded. Modern version without exploding rhino. You testify to wolves inhabiting your bones at night. The whole outfit is just an excuse for me to wear white tights in public. Quiet water and loud water. This is the moment when bliss it what you glimpse. It was a pretty good trench, though. I write for dead people. The dog barks at midnight. Then we're like the earth before the equator was invented. And the lampshades entailed certain rights. A lady's face floated over the silver and the food. I'm a girl, and only girls wear skirts. I remember my mother blindfolding me a lot. She struggles to summon a river out of limestone. I am a stubborn priest, who knows himself. The fabric is shimmery and picks up light well. Over whose hips was she pulling the flimsy black costume? I'm chasing perfection. They put a party on and waited for the sunlight to recall. And of treasure beyond any hieroglyphic accounting. Take them to the funeral home. Why does she get to have cute knees? I mean, I mean and that is not what I mean. These tights are perfect. Be not attracted towards the dull blue light. I have a wide stance. For what they now call the beauty of crinolines. Basically, pantyhose must be worn every day.