Almost too early for system..
Sight, a slug. Else all, slow avalanche, carrying mood, all gelatinousness–
He wanted only
a pillow, that
Mattress. And
Her songs, repeating till
he couldn’t hear them any
more. No sprinting, not with
Her. Time would have to slow,
He’d order it so.. Her caramel
shell, syrupy abyss eyes.. She,
his singular multiplicity gallery.
Now I’m out of song, unlike her..
She a strolling pastry– octaves,
Shades, scenes.. A play I don’t want
Ended.
But it needs to start for me to feel
that way.

(5/13/13)