The wind is crowded with shapes unformed and weighted. Burrow
impromptu doll copper in crevices between here and to zero signals
I need to hear from. Lost in paint after peel of persuasive mist and hot-handed plate in
juggling between insistent-lunged quiet choir appraising, passing, ping-ponging conjecture
like you
wouldn’t believe. Word decay, short-remissioned, in fashions of uncleared cadavers kept locked in
decrepit, subspaced wards.
Get their pupils off me. Get their scleras off me. Get their scratches off my back,
and their sailor-knotted tongues in order better knots.