Poetry

The accretion of a perfect squall 
when claws were out- 


scavenging novelties. A lewd 
paranoia slains a farewell 


in a trench. The chamber has 
vomited a mound of gold blinding a shell. 


The combs did not straighten 
the puff. The old man was very lonely. 


I would stop hunting the stings 
of a bare-chested moon. 


I recuse myself from judging the paperboat 
which wanted to cross the ocean.