broadcast from the high dry
hillocks. affixed with stitch
and strategy. primary
and angular, of stocky
stiffened cloth.
hands pushed the small shoulders forward.
there's no need to say it differently.
a small boy kneecaps capped in green grass
marched before them waving
fifty-two pinpoints on an ethereal
flag
i think we must simply
adjust
to the readout, of your Climate
Control Center which reminds me
of the clash
of the titans if the titans
were an intricasy of inscrutable
levers i mean that
lee-vers, say it with me and already
it's exploding
like some hot
tomato in the grasp
of some outright lonely
lobe.
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