in the arbitrary face of it
not a caption

finding in the moment

that it was good enough for Shakespeare that’s enough to turn

not away but into an incoherent bird an inflorescent storybook

of gosh and golly songs along the lines of brooks or fabricated

of stifled yawning awnings the ones above and bellowing bliss.

I objects to itself and subjects me to some sky blue foolishness.


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