by Brian McCloskey
I don't want your dirty denominators. And the various buildings they lived in. I only own my dirty thoughts and this story. Now it is September and the web is woven. Blue golden green their throats and breasts. Body candescent from a secret heat, loosening her robe to partake of passing breezes. He came walking in and said it had accidentally gobbled up his sister's pantyhose. I am getting a new dress tomorrow, perhaps I shall send for you. Once there were ramps, stairways, lights, odd sounds. He will stroll and cross the widest street in Ireland. This is no longer the shaft of my thumb. Of this season nothing will remain but the sex. The water stone children wait to be born. Attach an old nylon to the end of the hose with a rubber band, then wave the hose over the area. But you are neither an elephant nor a television. Translucent tights cast shapely shadows. I have sobbed in certain familiar attics. Throw a crowbar to the old woman. Opaque tights also will update any dress with safe pumps. There's a frayed edge for you. They're watching some elephant dancing. Until you drift and I am at last the one you dream of. You will be green again, again and again. It is a hard responsibility to be a stranger. It is posed whimsically. Hungarian workmen give their blood. Number of models who wore short shorts over black tights with heels: 6, including me. And if I forget, the grass will forget. And draw attention to your legs, especially when worn with tights. Maybe the pandas are a novel metaphor for something.