I went alight learning
in bed,
my love was a heather,
a flat
There
is some motor
which
is anger
The day was lathered on staking
into a listy mayness.
All the hair
was shuffled with spit; and one
comes to a face he had not fought to,
Eye-stink, eye-low tensions
like sours
in a mood.
Leech-mooned is perfect,
in clothes, itself when a tiny
ampersand-able blossom
fakes the rain.
Rain is a flower that
won
like this; wan
like that, one
like this, Juan.
To
know my door is one of these
that
the wind can catch at,
be not
too much shaken,
which
I have not written—
rooks abed to whomever,
fills nothing lost but himself
despite the laundry, the tact of us,
but an insipid rest, less
since of no wear enough to see
trouble spilt to merely
intention quick adapted
to moans in the wall.
For
all we knew underground
I have
myself, and love them.
Or if
I will not rape
also
the headache of.
And
pathetic equally
would
look at you,
where
it all was
come
and come again.
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