with the sluggish slowness of the snail
I was looking for you, then
I was looking for you. God,
on the goblins of the landscape
and not finding your sun in a snare of the desert
in a city that has already strangled me
I was and remained a social donkey
Maybe a little cracked
with oversized pantaloons
Am I dog slobber as for bone-in brown oils and gasoline?
are all made up of peach chops
while there somewhere a killer whispers in mobile?
glory is a group work on systematic harvest gleanings.
in a sculpture of parchment of unfinished manuscripts
in my grave, I will crew