Favorite Hymns of PraiseWade Fletcher
Some don’t sip, they gulp, undertaking task for task’s sake, your hand motioning the latch turning it back towards precedent. Some sip, slip unworn from creation staggered back as image’s opening— that the figure allows development of a figure, which allows and is absent our opening, or opposite— our listing, our lagged our brokered, our uptook and open to, our absence, our all about. Some gulp, waking the air leeward, this touch fasting lightly on skin, reminder of present’s refusal.
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