When the exacts of impression
an overwhelming feeling,
those oppressive Dickinson tones,

Where I try to catch up.

But I am not locked away or
on the verge of.


Like we can’t finish
with the song in our heads.

The sea, the trailing noise, rising and rising.
Trails off. . .Rises.


I need dangerous=music.
something with strings and claws.


Testicular psychosis.


Simple place
ment of song.

An equation of letters,
when all is
under the drum:
a beat miscue.

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