Frozen in some dated family photograph. You get been too much. Veering eye- Level, hones no better pair of lips Than these. From the coff of eve some bell whorling thru the leaves Leaves in looser order to wash each Wretched other out. Evening drivels distant waves on Whom we lie, we love to know away.
Poor men praise whatever worse outweighs hope's burn.
They write in rags of light over unevents. Each time a little colder in the head, eating, like say, some more words. Because the future is vague, even in a room where behavior is a calendar, the soul cut by a simple barber. Winter's corymb two streetcars coupled together, sung as any wire strung is never still Because the air is spoken for. There, where ideas are touted, or toted around in the pipe-smoking casual behavior of the book.