Tuesday, June 29, 2010

If

If Mona finds holes it's because they're the sheer size of reality. Buckling along the thing, the past tense spat heels to the  cuffing shoe, and ringing by its collar, each merry maker convinces the persuasive fact . Its being. Its being exists and the trolleys prove it to exist.

This way none have any bearing on reality fealty the dead drop and camgaign of the frustrated week and their freak show. The muddled resentment and the 
carrying on  ~ Neither
the blister of rock or its cheap leather sheep    .  How burden folds its wood light by this sheaf.  Never knowing its difference finality and the rubbing phlox of its lane  . Pink purple and mauve ever to their need, run along the hedge backing grove after
grove





No one hears it Jill's moon is the predicatory love of its subject being  ~ fair north mariner to its company   ~ 

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