I am not I when called to account- plaster over, dumbly benched the corrosive ardency of blinkered identification. To affirm nothing, a veil of asymptotic bent, prattling over- tunes in the striated ecstacy of an turned- around spade. Sprain parkway gulls its titular horizon, & my growling Zebra knows me just enough to tip her hat. |
© 1997