A graveyard for the shells of nuts, broken shoe-lace independence, foot paths of a ghost s regatta warming up for oceans crossed. I order knowledge of myself like rich desserts, burning off time s calories. You won t read a Pollyana treatise here. Pain exists in cactus flowers tucked between both swords and thorns. You won t see a war wrap up and love the trash it rifles through.
Internal motion plays eternal.
Looking for lost jacket cause. Another television war surveyed from our Lazy Boy s. Rifles filter good and bad. Bombs play pedals with their tongues. A briefcase is a body bag where imitation leather rules.