Down gravity we have wait-listed in the forked intention of a road. The smoked semester shivers as it has been taught. The only rodeo in town has packed itself into a tidy sleeve. Hello to bait shops needing us for pity and in-tune displacement. Matches come in boxes.
Boxes come in bags.
We almost care to take them in our pieced-together arms Still cozy from the sun, all wannabe lukewarm and so forth Sunshine. Commisky Park's a beautiful aroma-less configuration. And torsos moving fast together spin The daylights out of daylight singular. We have our standards and our morals and our milkshakes To go home to, so don't bother us for knick knacks. In her photograph her body looks as though there's something wrong.