Sunday

Castle longing



And s(h)e lost  a breath from loving not quite either too little or late but wanting to pant at the edge of love's seat. she's a feat and twice over the ringing pulley.

Not  a second too  a  crescent moon means loving. Aware of air. Somber on the feet? Not so a light patter over the delicacies of age.


and she? she's a mother with the fierce   of its valor? perhaps homophones and honour are the pallor tricks  of its prepositional disunity where    falling apart busting through molecules of the multitudinous resurrections makes it s case



Up the ElevAtor doWn the StairS


                                  and is your body love or a djinn a judgement to or against time. The falcon  no the hawk on the river Friday afternoon

 came looming along hovering down over the water and the dark grey heaviness of weight







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  Jill's got  a boot in her tender heart's tip and it won't flip to day and night.

  Long to the lover's moan. A moat for pulling boats and other refugees on the smooth space of the allegory transomed over window and
  ignaceous   crust and mirroring  crap shoots out the hidden aperture of this modest castle's longing.


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