If you could imagine the bouy that never could fly
For fear of Being caught in the ink
well that ran dry
It’s speed dialing the old King coal mine
for gold the foundry Sheared grinding stone
and a treaty washed off Into these very
typewritten epidermis shorn bones.
philosophy Hidden Below those tides
Lies a broken Shipwreck.
Whipped foals tried pulling Trees
in furrowed waves of borrowed
Brows set so low they slung
There grand papas genes from
Here to a refilled glass slide to you.