I suppose even in my derelict condition
Leaves as these seem bright, social,
Overindulged to be
Vegetating in my milieu, my milieu which has
Eaten my face, my
Loved me ahistorically. O how I'm stabbed to the ground –
A feather, a nation, a nation of leaves. But my milieu
Never weeps or halts
The eating of my face that my face surrounds.
Speaking. Again. Surprised.
How in our heart soup we
yodeled a new one
beasting along in feathers and
rain. But rain of the oiled and oddly shaped feathers.
Inside we caroled the height of our numbers and then
did every one of their fuck samples stall. So they
Call another formula horse from her
And comb out the meadow for horse formula plums.
Rouse from your corner yew horn dog electric!