Thursday, June 22, 2017

no it wasn't

dusted the cloud
reached the fork
named the shit

it was a storm form
it was not a cube
it was a shot shirt

I saw the soon
I saw it clammed
I saw what sighed

muttered in a spoon
nattered in a mirror
spit in a pocket

it was the coughing shoe
it was the misty leg

it was the swallowed book


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