Eyebrows Don furls.
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 brokenI shake so
of its spokes. A bitter right of blue I
light. Coils soak. A snow loved fresh a legend.
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FRiGG: A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry | Issue 30 | Fall 2010