Trampled underfoot


Of the hoof and haunch.She wearing socks. Fiddling the ring at the cross of the T stave. And the s rave.

Under the dark. And the one . Came to say its purple thing...not he, but its other memoir rounding the elegiac mark and thrusting into the spaces of its continuing set... O her fell wood garbled and rung by the fastest of asteroids but bubbling up the oil in blood she wore its capable hearing in her sensing screen