11 october

no other artillery to fire as the smores laid down the ropes course the cart before the horse coriander and asparagus a spare gust of the carbon copy and adopt our own regards – it’s hard enough to hanrdle the banded way we weave our wavering voices – the choices we make, the cakes we take (I am a frog, a tree, a rhinocerous) – these ar our own designs and closer to fine as the crow flies indigo, the counts try merry-go like the walrus snows at midnight, a wrapper’s delight all crinkly and tingly with the sound of margins charging their last credit bets – we ride our own regrets like tricky ponies moaning in the tired sunbroke clause as the worried sentence writes itself out - - - a thoughtful ending on pause