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The Sponge of Sleep

Why waver? He won’t stab me for
when we sat down widely pixillated
between the horizon and the lice.
We’re off to the sea, someone said.
Let’s direct it to us
and our various enjoyment. I hate it when
we’re made of snot one
minute, stone so simple the next.
I would think first,
and then we were there
sooner other than that.

Here’s the flooding group
as if there is
when I reached thirty.
What did Russia
(boxes on the road)…

All this could have been avoided if
we aren’t doing anything.
Serviceberry shot down by squirrels,
you don’t have to thank everybody.
The charm of abuse sings in ways we are not.
Or we can sit and travel, aimless ceremony.
I paint feet. Summer pants. A wave of translation
on the apples, like the friendly air out there.
If they do so, they do so disproportionately
to his three-year-old brother-in-law,
who patted the expats in a purgatorial whisper.
The inside of the crate had expanded exponentially
from carrying one load of artichokes.

Be one of those on whom nothing is lost, advises Henry.
Well, OK. I’m awake. No problem
that I can see, unless it’s running out of raw material,
like, his dog Jerry opted out of the transubstantiation process.
It was ever thus:

Cabochon pluots weighted down with
ananas en belle vue. They drank Salada tea
in a statement.
We just gotta keep that stranded one safe as before,
and getting out of here.
How far is the Old Log Inn?
I’d love to read it.
The woods are sorry for them.
Small rain will land somewhere.

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