How I Know It Is My Heart: No Punctuation
[ 1 ] Stalks of bigger flowers than you thought: his noticeable discomfiture around quite likely blossoming.
[ 2 ] Maple syrup, as if sweet water weren’t enough, and daydreams, less-than-mild hypotheses.
[ 3 ] All of the perimeters lay fallow, save for her, her majesty and complication, attractive from a distance, mainly, and the curve of her . . .
[ 4 ] Centigrade, the rise of altogether foreign terra, and a mid-line to be crossed.
[ 5 ] Anxiety so swilled it keeps on giving to the undeserving (text me a trace of lost identity: mock orange, bottomless petunia, corrugated bloodline.
[ 6 ] Sanctimonious division problem, not the same as new blood, all for the good of the ordinal data.
[ 7 ] She practices appearing to be popular, declaring to the missing audience what little time she has for them, how thinly they qualify.
[ 8 ] So what (instrument do you play) . . . graffiti bums me out, it is so much like dirigibles in rehearsal, scarce in output.
[ 9 ] If I must be trapped, I would be trapped with you, here in this luxury antiphonal restraint, to the extent that people are already talking.
[ 10 ] Lifetime tepid as a trawl across the arbitrary line distinguishing potency from desire.
[ 11 ] Awaiting the incorrigible impersonator to deflate the broad brimmed cyclone from its perch, a semblance crimps expensive weeds still drying underneath the door frame.
[ 12 ] Hypothetical rumblings, discussion of same, sleek repartee, veal cutlets for a future meal, a silver service, let us pray.
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