Every other obtainable lady knocks three times before she performspolite dismemberment of you or your words, in ritual fashionswears no commonplace cure for rubber knees or rusted excuses. Regarding other misses who lay chase to any volume of absurd digressions instead of noting which edition’s ultra diction leaves best impression, some suggest all the lanky ones lay down, creating too broad a scaffolding, for even gravity’s best-dressed days require strict combing. Crafting inheritance, ladies, like no other window or paint brush can. Speak fact over fiction and never swollen- tongued, as if each word addressed gold crown or goddess, evading said failures of um, ugh, ahem, exuding satin-lined posture come flood, gasp or coffin. Whether to Yelp: Window Sonnet #3 Facing south, it never ceases to amaze me: bike bracing patio shadow, it’s tilted, buddy. Who spied who scoured lost lenses now gluey pennies pitched— imagine falling deeper, into an echoing well, ill-lit. Birds flapping swoop hedge-wide in circles. Nosh on this mash gone sour, sweet tea puddles, rosemary creeps silent swollen veins along the side of the house, socks on a dirty brick stoop, sifting a mate for this flour-white one, sweat clinging jars. See: sloshed blessing. Winter wants me blind, poor bastard. Less light near fiction—or so the story goes, bees born from pods. a blossom gropes for a new glow dodging. Sense the blood-hound, dear Edgar, rooting his snout. Said any anvil looming outside the radar looks brutish, if you ask me. |