I. The moon--
a woman with a blade
I come to you asking for direction, for grain
but find
I have misplaced my hands

II. We need Apollo out here and all
We've got is that room of mine, the moon.

III. It rises so fast
it could do anything
with your back to it
it could kill someone

IV. We wait on lies
like escaped fish
two to a line.
'Still, we

There is no one waiting the air ( Read more... )

The composition is sideways. There, in the heart of sleeping stairways, an orange awaits. Essentially, there are four forms of tired envelopes ( Read more... )

Apron-tied hours that appear. Closely laundered hours like eyes left in honey ( Read more... )

It's that rough need to quarter lonely. I've built a house for my poor flaws, falling over balconies. A collection of threads in milk. A handbag of milk. You pass over your hand ( Read more... )

The meadows are perfect, this side of the moon. There are paperclips to fasten onto the ankles of sight the enamel pierced body ( Read more... )

Sorry in an apple ( Read more... )

The potatoes leak and lie await in pairs. And there was a slow family acting in the sense of your arms. A canary around your eyes like the necklace of torn manila folders ( Read more... )

The beehives became their opposite

Nothing, nobody, related to nothing. Perhaps the circumstances are not possible but the feeling is.
Failure to realize the general self
Help should be allowed

The believers were uneasy, this forefront of June passed quietly behind in handfulls. The crease ( Read more... )