1243.

Always repeating
some dull message no longer
counting for meaning.

1242.

Spoken in empty
gyrations, pantomiming
just one mouth's small script.

1241.

Sometimes I feel we
will never be close enough,
even pressed in flesh.

1240.

A psalm of fingers,
spread like hungry starfish on
your skin. Still hungry.

1239.

I would stitch a new
window between our heads just
for a shared reverb.

1238.

The country a land-
scape, scars and manufacture.
An empty vision.

1237.

A bleeding offer
of promise and warning, as
one. Devouring.