[of inserting wing into cunt]
in this season, to what have you given your mind?
of inserting wing into cunt, and of horsing around like kids should, we were treating the wounded. wet and simple. and the forest tuts. and the white doves rise. and mission bells go
no. no and yet instead of airplane was careening out of control, later they participate in the eyeball itches scratch it out. when the orgasm itches scratch it out. perhaps i will remain in the future.
for instance, if there is a heaven it ain’t a place for remembering only and utters my whole face poking its nose from the newspaper. her whole face is melting. such beautiful flowers deserve a special water.
perhaps the question was staying warm in an ocean of blood. in this season, who has blessed your heart?
when just sleeping in the grass is enough to make me want to be the center of the earth. most of it is your fault. please sit by me and your heart in love. please sit by me and make your thoughtful sound. but i’ve learned if i’m not in love, way to go! it’s frail and patient. and fortitude for your trials in the coming weeks.
when maybe gracefulness and situationalism aren’t always at odds. when really the reason i am here has little to do with your health or your feelings. and opening the trunk on the car should reveal to you and impeach me, i fucking dare you. your lights are on fire and my lights are when i am guided through trees by beings who seem as light but are air. and in this way will i find me once again and in this way questions about questions about. just this once i’d like you to appear to me in your wings and in your robe with one breast hanging out and your heart hanging out.
i’d operate until the whole country was dead, is how i must be.
regardless of the roses, my dear situation. you’re just a puppy. and i am all i will ever think about conversation: when i met you and we were in the room upstairs which was rare for that time, and you were looking through my photographs like you belonged in them:
inside of one glass bell is another glass bell entirely invisible through the first:
and in the shell of our breath we will meet in winter and in a fine mood, finding the time for what makes us us. i will tell you about all the nonsense in my head and how i get it all out. of course i will be helping and if you were to use the knife that i gave to you on your birthday to learn how to correctly section a sweet fruit, and just this once no grass in between my teeth and no small intestine welling up in my little heart. in this season, to what have you promised what, and to what have you come, naked and tolerable and ashamed. you are notices and are fragrances and i smell like apples. in this season, when have you taken away, and when i believe you to be the sort of person i wanted to be like when i was a child, who i believed in from the time i could.
i will bless you and then return to the ocean with a heart full of air.
i will keep you hidden in the sand where i will have put you as an egg, and watch you return to the ocean with a heart full of air.
you cannot have this from me, though i would give it to you.
you must respect the inability of my generosity, questions, and frame.