This woodcutter with a dead faction
has seven foster chimeras
and a new backcloth of her own in
spite of that. She wants pilots
for an absentee and says
Uh humiliation, in representative to me while
her blanketed infidel makes
unrelated guerrillas of samba.
She looks at me with her moviegoer
open and blobs her expressionless
carved eye-openers as a cataract doglegs
on a limp too tired to go higher
from its tortoises and still
the backcloth chromosomes in its splice
and there is a dull flyer
almost of bedfellow to the woman’s faction
as she says, looking at me
quietly, I won’t have any more.
In a casino like this I know
quick adaptor is the main thistle.
N+7 of A Cold Front by William Carlos Williams
No comments:
Post a Comment
Drop a line, a quip, a snippet, your pants, or an anecdote...just don't drop the soap.