The remains
of what looks like a question:
since we’re
even, no-one knows how it got
there, trying
to crawl up the side.
On Cloud
Nine, one-earner needs hunger
on foot, advice,
the past. Dressed as God,
or siring transparency:
it thrilled you.
If bans
control the list, it doesn't mean
anything,
northeastern bombers. As
pieces, uniquely
designed, limits work.
Antagonism is history, for now. There’s
the lack of an act, simply because
those yellow lines borrow, run.
So disallow
us to ruin prose, but
when you
die, never move out.
All content
sourced prom my previous Oulipost 2014 poems – each and every one of them, I swear.
Thanks for following along.
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