Locus heal me. As ants, parboiled ‘em. How they amble out agog, the where you ate around. I want my head like that: silvered room of dripping. Is there anymore periscope to be had. If, I could swallow the light and leave a sandwich in its place—
She’s Laked Howsome
She’s laked howsome, nor the singed, antennae-lilt. Not stilling the roundwaves as I ought your—this ridden song hung me now. Me to ring you weller, to round you weller, to nose you into the skies. For you to walk so rather nice, I not as I, but as you thought clearest in the sped-pillowed halfness. How’ve I quivered not along to a ruint; first kissedwindclean and noticed more in this head—what I’ve flung I’ve tilled. You’ll restrinse into the deadening link weathers and past them as.