Eyebrows Don furls.
John Myers

Do cursives pretend themselves bells because
they want so badly to sound like your gleam?
Of course, and do you, after so much height,

look at shine the way you find trout, though
I can only rescue from disruption
that which knows disruption. You do like your

coast is dangerous. And what my moths want
as hinges, wound sly unbows, is shut. Shut
seems a really mean intimacy, so

moans intimacy. What catch shut on Will
likes to turn putters bad in the star thin
light not turned off but broken—I shake so

of its spokes. A bitter right of blue I
light. Coils soak. A snow loved fresh a legend.

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