A most enchanted I dunno. As in: days of. Passing out, your lemon peels made perfect bookends. As in: many splendid mishaps of. Your little thorn-spiked punch. Under a lintel with always an of or a with & an and to bring us close to sparrows. O, but. Gasp. Without you, there’s nothing to slander in Xanadu. Lately, the connective has been knocked out of bounds, as in: there are no more bounds in this town, but lots of eraser nubs, lots of nefarious scribbles. Somehow, it follows that what falls inside, sips a tumbler of jello covered pins; a toaster fussing over squirrels, fussing over crumbs in corners & thumbs in sockets, spigots spouting cardamom & ice. Call back, I am busy forging signature hairdos & teaching an evening course on morass; I have no time for a toe-stub or your pinky-stung rebuff. What’s worse, pasty glare, or pastels in October? Most days, I revisit the blanks of the Why & have blackout served with raw onions, stretched out where an arch was built to support our bonsai amore & broke for want of stupor. But leave that space be or be gone. Believe in it. Put your red pencils away.
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