by Brian McCloskey
This room is a room. No mentally deranged wantons. One stays in the past and dies. Happiness of the hand and heart. Everyone knows the age of luck is over. When you are alone you can see. Her corset among laughter and waving hands. He walks into a thin morning. Any sounds a mouth might make. Did each daybreak haunt her like a blank page? I'm the girl who added the white tights. But I never forgot those pretty, shiny turquoise shoes. I'm not that kind of poet. I was just covered with sodium. The ribs are very apparent. I am a girl who loves her tights. We feel we have always been very far away. Is it something to do with the gusset? You have left but I haven't stopped kissing your lips. I think it is a good sign that spring has arrived in Switzerland. Some sounds are lost forever. He later confessed that those tights got his attention. And even this old skin belongs to someone. Embodiment is the river's use of mud. I swindle with the silence of words, because I live in them. I think we are inside a flower. And a pair of black tights had slithered down his now very feminine legs. Today I have black opaque tights and knee boots with a knitted dress. For some cosmic reason they play together nicely. I would put them in black tights and black shoes. We decided that it would be fun to do it on the roof.