Sunday

hereafter

 Hereafter you are wombcocked my tit bir diving the surface scudding  a l o  n  g the hor i zont al nave in that building round there and the loneliness was much and the owl of the world clutched its claw fair wind to the solo sky

round the square precipice Mona and her Jill becoming book becoming binder tape and glue

the typography states them in the visageing mask of their mutual byre. Not again! Jack cries mussed to their double lioving. O my ears! he cries out murther! murther! its the night of the giving! O this owl creakes in her pause a sparrow gangled for her eeled cowl If she is a gremlin I am a grosbeak! hail then your funny finery punty on the wind thing here whatever it is puttering round the tail end of this skiff ... Rimbaud's hall of fame is not as long as this.. I am the foraged Jack of all maids. Made in Irish. Come along then sure as my follies and the bolly head. Curse ! Peeve! Cuss! my rude busty things. Straps yer gets in want and haunt me down!



Franny rests and renews her plea her cause paaused on the tremendous love of objects.