Central Smoke Bone

She had grown red and corpse-like below the Danish authority standard issue yellow canopy—beyond the dune and deadwood. Nearby, crusted and congealed, many rats in hazel frozen a on twig.

Bleating, and she a sheep, that sand crackled and raised in the wool course of the afternoon. The wife to pooling streaks of curly substances. I’m pre-litigating the issues glued to highlighted clauses and codicils.

A lining of corn is what I picked out—in far arcs instead of center nodules. I notice dried mud and qualities of contractual clouds of condensed water on all sides of the windows.

I sawed the far central branches—and what of the ears?

Those?

In an increasing density at the left of the central smoke bone, she said: “what an attractive calumny as the stumble chooses. What did he choose?”

I chose. Her. Intently. There.

We dove tumble blind. The rocks (later chosen) over the chin into what we consider sticking faux yellow moves in air.

Did she?

You, who watched living rings in our mouths—a technology unsparing and compared those to wire geologic plates—radioactive, venous, glowing red and white.

You found that sort of liminal feature—a leaf glowing dizzy in the eddy of a creek

What I’m Reading:

“Most of the water that will drown Miami and New York and Venice and other coastal cities will come from two places: Antarctica and Greenland … What really matters is what happens on the two big blocks of ice at either end of the Earth.”

— Jeff Goodell / The Water Will Come