There, there already, the wish, the air. Trembling, the slanting neck, the ready ground, again, running, again, away, over the head shed land and spurs, Indian without horse.
The moon, full-armed and ragged. Distance sleepwalkers, pursued. The second man runs toward the front man. He wants to kill him. The first man will do anything for the moon. A bed of accomplices. The third man is entertainment. Independently, the street rises.
It Is a Wonder
We all understood the harm; nobody has arms not crossed; all have limbs and tails. I press each into the other, this way-- the sound! If it is done this way, it is done.
But really, nobody cried like these otherwise entangled throats separated by tiny mountains. Nobody would sing.
Cami Park will not do. She tries to make up for it by posting things at http://oddcitrus.wordpress.com, and other ways.