Shelf Doll
Rehearsal was yesterday. You can put your trumpet on the shelf. Any day now, it is raining, and I have no more to say to you. I have my instincts on a leash, I have my dowry, and I have your faith about to be transmitted via viaducts that space heat the electric routes we stow away. When you are in the room, the atmosphere is tinctured with a smudged regret, as though my forehead has endured Ash Wednesday like the movie Groundhog Day. We're always on the brink of a belief in rescue. My Adonis strays. Is the un-quietude also quiescent? Whosoever knows the code delays the sol fa din of reaching. Many episodes from now, an individual will claim to have invented teams and other multiples. The crowd will jeer from its prefab distention almost mortifying to enablists given fame alongside the short story full of this. One queries people one has missed. And one admits to being fortified by nine initial melons in the flesh. Pseudonymous playthings live to see the day. Whose daylight moistens every surface. When the women with the cloths leave, the imprint of a face is left. A mercy no one hurries through the several stories.
Proof as chaperone who oversees the censured heart, a reason for routine, its fathomed arch support
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