OverPoetry

from toe to temple, for us only, a fist-sized fire while other sears

task up dirt in the bury of people non history typeface

oh the worm rises to a heaven, imagining arms for us

ten throats are almost vulgar breathing out their not said be

free for tall treed lumber root bad guys outing picnic aunts

when left to count pixels, let a finger feel glow’d lack

the map moves us, folding skin into neat lines for the box

All the Es in the world can’t keep away heated vow Ls. Spell thee over, mum bell.

well thought you dint get through big moment

and as if thoughted makes a different plate

The gone return in a wood panel room with diluted vhs colors.

No matter where they are, no distance ‘tween voice and ear.