crying because of their dirty hats, the mountains loitered with the clouds.
cotton = death cloth, read one sign;
birthday boys extend and collapse in all quadrants when ascending.
facing the north winds, he said, no one ever takes that trail .
they emerge - angry chocolate-bar-eaters - from the woods.
the forests spied on their packs
and were indifferent towards their attitudes.
a high wind poises four statues there.
i don't know the range, the junctions, or the bird songs.
people gasp out of nowhere and sit on top.
the tooth, thousands of feet in the air, folds them into the frying pan.
the breakfast in the mountains lifts your eyebrows at their joints, wakes
the toothbrushing and says reuse the dish before washing.
i'm going all in on this and the anchor moves down.
the dark, yawning fridge hurls a cool sound of falling water.
a calmer tooth crosses the mouth,
a bottle stones the back, and the sitting on the dry hay mashes the dirt.
floating under my eyebrows.
mashed up in the car, done with the paper, we grimaced
as our shoulder held the bite blocking us out.
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