by Brian McCloskey
Italian boys grew onions and garlic. And slow talk is how gods murmur. This is because I am the sky. A kiss is a salt mirage in smitten air. Brass in my bewildered hand. Eye have always loved listening to language like this. This dream is too dry. Tell me about your tights and what you do in them. My heart drains like sand from a shoe. We must protect the world from time's corrosion. And then a hand smaller than my hand covered Wisconsin. But now I'm wandering through a maze whose every prospect pleases. Watching an orgy, in Russia or elsewhere. I did the first time I got married because I didn't want my thighs to rub together. What kind of nuts are found in the eyes of a goat? The galaxy print makes my hormones go crazy. And tights being tights, they don't do that. I wanted softer touches. I love the idea of a freezer stacked with tights. A considerate partner would have responded in a red suit. He asks for a dozen apples, I tell him my uncle is a little worse. Pantyhose are much like a person, strong yet unique. In the silences there was a great sea between us. Adding flare to an outfit and making the wearer feel happy, sexy and confident. I went to get my stubborn pony. One is meant to mimic bare legs, one isn't. I'd love to live somewhere that made it possible for me to dress like this all year round. She offered me some of her tights to deal with the issue. You can't see what the mirror doesn't show. Have you ever grown your own leeks before? A heart wants to be used, fed.