parting ruffling

If parting is ruffling she's shoulder to shoulder with the wind, clouting it back to its determined flux, honking along with the geese heading south ____ the borders know no home to wank her spell and tankards of fuel ___________keep her going at night. Hogshead willow and the bankers talk back, the bakers true. THe rich man and woman slack as detergent know nothing of the real, and the reel to reel colour of the swamp, the marsh, the working dime, the working woman in her prime gazette of feel.

Is she a gazelle in bed?

If so it's due to the weight her bed carries, boarders know this truth best, better than truth serum, is love's kick, its licekty-split dum-dum bell and the dumb waiter draws forth water.

That way it was. It's not as it should have hurried to the riveted sunk of its song, the plinth burying the thing,

and the boat savoring the night, the beauty savoring the equal night.

Deterritories make a pillow for love

Chinese style and the buses are full. Fallow lovers peer trombone wise to the west.