Shanna Compton With Dashes Fitted, with Intent Spliced

With Dashes Fitted, with Intent Spliced

Administer this, buster. In the salon the flitting

energy pours zero wedding riches on the flashes.

For unity we indulge in passes under every gable.

This for us is the same as to seize, to call, to talk

of Tuscany—transplanting apprehension from one mind

to another, from one book to the next in a gnomic

microscopic hand. Yes, a literate parade of our despairs!

We issue again the shutdown command, the flick

of a susurrating blade. Forget about the scurf—

think cabins and woods. Think abandoned shops

dusted with the tracks of cooing quails, threnodic

as accordions. In cyclones we trust. Count the stuff

of these eighteen warehouses while all babbles on.

We must align our quandaries and babble on.

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