'WEREN'T NONE OF US'
How was she? She was burnt out. You mean she was a thing flame had gone through. She
was a thing flame had gone through. She was through? Thrown. Such a queen of sadness.
No queen of a thing. But orderly. An orderly of sadness. Not such keen sense as that. She
was a tree on which lay scented-ness. Licentiousness. But did it mean? It did mean. But did it
mean a mean thing? It did mean.
Plank of muscle
She took a quill to quiver and paid my name to it, paid in letter
from leather sack, sacked a letter from a lesser word.
The object is not lost but it feels lost.
The object is not lost but it feels loss.
The object is not lost but I feel lost.
The object is not lost but I am a host to loss.
A hostage of it.
What a smooth invention is leaving.
We snatched the bone from the thought.
O Fido me home. O fight for me home.
She was a purring thing. A breakfast habit. A hell-bent. An earth-tweaked. A little beast
some weeks became, and sour how the tongs that
what of our bodies could be called? That womp
our bodies owed to the muscle-bawdy whew. To the not-quite hue. The never-never
plundered, and the laundry done. The den of done stuff
done made new. Dung makes new
as its fertile-lazing self. To our manure-selves,
may they man us. May they reprimand us to bloom.