An itch I have for contemplating edges entices me, I tumble into meshes and nibble at climactic absolution. Birth Come into the light, the end is now beginning. Crying in the morning, watch the sky. Some screw their faces, ask for other weather. Others chirp and gobble, might as well be bright.
Hunters glisten, jaws are sharp.
But what the hell, it isn t dark. But once when it was close to me it was cowlike, It went moo. They sound as used to death as dropping in to gossip with the barbers while they trim the growing, graying, falling, turning bare barometer of our decay, our hair. To them that snicking scythe today appears as easy as the barbers clicking shears. Here s a place the printed guide says someone mined for copper a hundred years ago and sure enough the site still shows some ore.