by Brian McCloskey
And air, who know when you're near. I was watching her legs when the miracle happened. But show me red or electric blue tights and I'm jumping for joy. It says it's hot in California. No real insulation in the old farmhouse. They make no apologies for being tights. And walnuts—and a crow, a whole bouquet. You can imagine yourself in a certain dress. I am shy but you can reach me. But where is the city and its electric tale? It feels like somebody with a fever is yelling at my pants! The Portuguese still know better than the English how to make cod palatable. Tights have reached a maddening frenzy! The pomegranate and orange on my desk are harder than stone. So she washed in five waters and went to their bed. The universe just kept throwing pantyhose at my face. How do you know she isn't a lighthouse? Pull your dress off and find the wind. True, he had an Irish contempt for correct spelling. Slip it over a little black dress and a thick pair of opaque tights. Winter in a skirt. I tried to imagine a world without hypothetical situations. An open boat: it's company, not coin, I want. Maybe you should keep a few pairs of (good) tights in your office drawer? I could get lost in that fog. Anything warm is warm. I think it's because of the tights. I'll draw a bigger square. And, of course, black tights, that are fashionable all year round. My tights match the colour of my lips. Can I just wear pantyhose on a nudist beach?