Status: Detached: Astronomers declared that space smells like bacon and hot rubber.
To: RS
From: VW
Subject: Re: Your animal face
No generation of timely affairs and the lone egg in an eggcup an isolated
viewer. Walking the square ringing doorbells then roof jumping a birthday party, vaulted. You gave up on the web already? Silk spun cross hairs for feeling. Rare is the surgeon can match your skill, engineering cartilage, skin and all, how the swells crater.
This is my third visible poem, a long row of steps leading you to apologize for clasped hands conscripted to help temporarily, not to become the woman's light engulfing her body’s
moths are the sole inhabitants of the space I saw you reading a little while ago. The person of whom I shall not speak has my copy of your book by rain cooperating unless cooperating
means an incubus split then pressed against film. Women have more nightmares than men, despite a reluctance to scream.