Most Sleep in Eden

I read what I can’t see, take each mote of blurriness under the wing. Without depth we are nothing. Spread fingers out to the wind The master of resistance is in the webbing, shallow and see through, a field of blossoms.

I am here again. bellowing the patterns of beard into paint that soft bristle brush of maternity. Develop an alabaster sleeve. Morning star, cold breath the air hangs on each word. Slow and certain my periods remain.

An apple cannot save what we have gotten into. Behind the barbecue bench in the nameless name. A correction of letter and space reveals the sentence of sentience. Say the name of science. The fixation of math on the imaginary.


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