Summaries of the extravaganza
were lifted from my desk. Ripples
shielded the springtime air in dozens.
A fog was about to set in beyond the downward-
pointing thumb when here was a clipped pace
of moth-life, a disparaging sequel. Apples.
Disparagement. I saw lots of stamps
in the mirror, a box of matches, them in hundreds
about to finish off the electrical storm
wheezed through their necks my lips and teeth
at your wrist: The storm became a twitch
at your smile. Now I doubt it as a squall.
Nothing happened to color that shirt. All
is terribly stuffy in this pool. Yesterday
the milk ran out, so we saved up a few ashes,
and luckily the waves kept arriving.
Trouble in Paradise
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