you absent other you breath of offer you footed gardener
I put you there in a loud house, roughing the flooring you wish were more like loam. that point of sharper light, is it broken glass or just the peculiar stab of this morning? I ride roads elsewhere as you smile hard. thinking so much for your aversion to “the proprietary,” thinking your wrists mine in an important sense. an aphorism sits heavy on the blue-green sphere. out past the prairie, into the soft grass, you are reported to have gasped. other words for west, anywhere, anyway, but to be gone and from there continuing, your wrists in my pocket. you, safe, in a sense, in my ear.