lying low in pusallinimity of fear
Wagons decked with excuse drew past
in a quick three-frame slide. Air, moist, drifted to
my window, shut, and without rumbling
at its ignominious discharge, we lay
white sheets on our Bermudan bed.
How we think of slashing flags of a
perfect tense. Crisp after the token
fever seated on that vast prospect of flatness,
my corpse wills itself upward in honest parody.
In objectiveness of denser gas, racked
across a few hundred metres
it anticipated a penultimate lecture of regret.
Lay me on a hard board. So if
I might reckon the total silence of will; but,
a panic of it unable to trim me yet, back
through the hazard zone under its orange circles,
regret and pointedness inflating till I verge
in the bed's contracting pupil.
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