The memory of painting these pictures for you
a lash on your cheek
believing it all
the crop in shade
though other-absorption encompasses
Her hips not swinging per se. Her belly on the fence
a remnant viewed through a spool
You were not allowed to be much of anything
toiling to bear the torn picket line
And, styled as an unknown
drips of the afternoon
I was almost there
Up in the lighthouse signaling you.
Later shoulders seemed armor
And the tough spot we ink to lecture Mankind
length of the spoon
the remnant multiplied
the offender being fire escape but not in ambiguity
the finger's thorn
to a jug of bathwater, dousing the mugshot with saliva
Instinctively stealing the goods,
A classic is something that everyone wants to have read
and nobody wants to read.
-- Mark Twain, "The Disappearance of Literature"
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