tailgating numbers into view for you all

pollen & rounded vowels / a cotton field

trembling to the buzz of clavier preludes.

she’s jogging past a fictional silo we’re here

after excelling. you chuckle in the low-lying

cloud with 18th century fish a-thrash in the

channel. western sweetness. fronting the

historical society: i’ll be dead before any

thing happens. anyway. just now that was.

a regional pair of shoes stood down dried

and sugared like ginger. i’ve listed the tasks

for tomorrow are you still keen? deflated

& part of the spindle i belt out a seasonal

honouring industry / worry at tarmac witches

hats / yawn over sprung harmony / get my own

baleful kicks. ambergris covers a bail of

needles & like a blogger i read about

legislation. though who’s left freckled in

america after you mobilise the left &

introduce a remainder of stroboscopic

love-fest scenarios at the mall – you’re sure

each answer is proximate. urban planned

copyright pyro-geographic afterthought:

inside a house of physics, forlorn at the tea

bags, the phone dialed. i’ve never been to me

nor booked a table traditionally. link me up

riverine style help me ogle ambient irrigation,

get high on peppermint. birthdays are

unlawful / barrels of remuneration.