Pushing toward a dawn that is or is not
death. A spectacular antecedent. What
can I do? I cannot make the tip of the
tongue Gizzi. It is sorely fresh and
cheeky. In walks a face and the soda
bubbles. We wear curtains. Stop.
On Tuesday the chicken is a little
sour. He reads the newspaper. Then
he stabs it with a chopstick. Superstop.
Finally: Suzy is so right.
So: He lifted up some of his roots.
His sweatshirt stretched feminism.
We walked into the kitchen for a laugh.
