June 22, 2014 § Leave a comment


Lack of distinguishing features our new term for missionary zeal


Enough heat to possess a scent in the sweepings a blue stone


The nothing to say places they loom above the weeds


At some point in our conversation you took off your shoes


Spiders settling in where my habits wear away the edges


The wet spot on your pants has dried a school bus underground


Set on fire the brief history of prosthesis it smells of iris


Fastened by a tangle a strand of hair cuts into the apple peel


Some days we hide in the vowels the sprinkler leaves a few weeds




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You are currently reading CHRIS GORDON Masks No. One at ant5.


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