With the nightlight blown out on the chalk pits
the stabled fur sent roadside to be
Stitched with every ode that didn’t make
on the empty wheel gazing at shoes
as whistling scenery of a paper weighted
world that’s does not feature the means
to reinforces a end.
the tea rung leafs curling on a straining
Chain that’s dripping with thoughts or
just the words that’s a pourable tea sea.
With a look that’s as still as the morning
and the triads dispute is staved in stacked doubt
needling you about feathered Boots
explanations as holed as the swear jar
A magnetic field of railway crocus
Usually reserved for habitual sleeping mice.
the scattering of rice drinks that are as spilt
As the piñata of confection lines swinging
In the acorn laden tree.