tract wrote school, arm nane of reddening.
self all in evenlies, most of language looking for a landscape.
  wriit ence hoar

Skeletal kin

tilt
italic lunacy

The town is a whistler
turn on a rock
The water runs a working curve

Paddles sloshing in tunnel.

Volume: all thumbs.

Dis-ser-vice? Naaa...

out to make

one bird high

above spiralling

all
over
the
body
finishing
touches

Widowers have more dignity.

The flames starting from the ears.

That’s what I say: it’s worth a try.

Instantaneously and repeatedly, Blank serves as a station for our senses, making possible an impression of continuance.

Writing becomes distant and portraits of hosts crowd the space. The next page becomes as cornered and concerned as a studied artifact. Thoughts not towards anything but embodying a lot of writing. Too many military wives are being arrested. The tiny bit of wandering summarized by a spartan attitude of space.