61.
No pigs.
No litter letters nor whails
no sign for my llama, my llama or me
sticking a tongue in your fur for what
signed for propped up on the fencelight.
No haystacks or barking abroad.
You know.
Lawerence with his finger
sandwiches says pst pst we are going
and now we are shod and broken and paid for.
We ride in coaches and pay, pop pop pop.
Who knew winter.
This is still a story and we get married:
coyote-thing in the afterimage
parklight. Anna plants ones
and puts collars around them and now
their wet skin is ready.
I smoke
an edge out of my jaw, pulling out the shadow
from this jacked
was that
an owl? utterly.
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