slung with slant news; some bells attached to trees smartly knotted betwix sturdy hairs of Bentgrass, St. Augustine, Zoysia, and Throw Rug Green seen some distance up, as from a plane, the way you will be going December 28th. I say I’m fine, sans severance, the tall columns of lofty hotel lightness. It’s bulldozer cold and my coat sews up my scarfy nose. Why are there so many yellow lamps in rented rooms? And funny silver switches? I turn right and Jimmy’s squinting. Left and well, that’s me on a hard brown bed with a pen in it. Missing just you who is what, puffing the scent pork loins? Lounging in the rec room by now, or up to your trousers in texas swamp?
You have a fish in your hat. That’s a scene. My naught body all white, water turning cabbagey colors, then what rises in your clothes�a pound of wine in the sky, clouds lathered up there, formally. I am sensing it or smoothing it or we move fast while the design of the wall slides down. There, there are pink stenciled flowers on it, and for any amount of time the white rubs out.
So the sides of an argument extended. Your fingers willing a ruse. Now I lengthen not just that, but press everywhere out.
You are an entire thing, a tow, and I break off, shavings, tape, dust, froth, all full of crumb, better than juice or who knows what they say. So the point of your mouth pulls a pepper apart.
I’m beneath beneath you and you are braces, taking up the entire bed, blowing as you do through the side. A manager crashes through the ceiling. Foundlings burst. The entire thing I am thinking is you and I say it. It is I fight you, tune you, hear it with my hips, that you mind the distance with which I need to see, that I shut seeing, bearing a bruise on my thigh, flint since it is hitting. It is up to you, I don’t know whole how much.
My pink mouth gleaming against its hinge, dark. I don’t mean to give you to it, but feel first inside a sack, a mold, a broom to my back. That we tremble into. Contrive lively adjustments, muster our undergarments into birds, or completely without White Rock and Windemere and Wolfforth; toward bright things tiny on the horizon.
An inkling only is what happens, scratching paint off a door, more like objects placed beside a storm. Shutting is it, shutting up my eyes and hair, shutting strings with a block, finalizing me like a stamp on a sore.
You need a word to perturb you, a splinter, a patch of powder on the ice that sits so new it breaks, it must break. And a name goes down. But I am thinking thinking, socked, brought out by two things never alike, never tined like gears, places to wait it out like wheels. It should be we in the bed instead. Like sources, how I beat breath out like hay, svelt, a pink skin simple slappings. To waste, watch me, holiday, have at us.