The final path the epicenter the camouflage the Bing
I cannot recall I never will fall in love with you a fifth Time
These glands this foot these ears I trust might linger and Forget
My panic finds fissures in the sidewalk must we now go Hunting
She knows she bowls she accepts exceptions to every Tool
Buttress (too easy Mister)
In hand on the lamb embedded balls landmine Monkeyshine
Lips lips lips AND lips
This will can only be purely mistakenly rigorous Demanding
The token adult thinks twice before clearing his throat and pointing out the clever little flowers on the fireplace mantel (if only). This is really too rich and detailed in fundamental wait…
The token adult thinks a third time and then growls from his gut in a manner only the best disappointments recommend. He’s forgotten his place until the street reminds him of pomegranate poems and the god he named miscellaneous when he believed in gods.
The token adult walks home.