A blue forest. A hill sinking.
A sun-blasted book. So I would have
a book. Blasted by bills the
muse arrives at four. After the fugue
a sign of weakening. A com-
mittee starts at nine. Thinking
follows. Thinking fellows.
I have my nose to the soulless
file upon the bleak desk filled with bluebirds.
About what? The airplanes swimming?
Someone took a knife to the smokestack.
