Conductors thread slit by the seems, there to remain at fleece, the shoreline a splice, beading of welt to light with smug to breathe of flame, cool the uncoiling even of moonlight. They read her the novel, by lipping in compassion, she soundly spoke in defiant words of removable sheet music; her dress in overt hands sound beyond to the score, tide-like with flicker fled bound, upturned to seven. They had him by the novel, marks in a thimble-pipe, it was seventeen-nineteen, calcium flowers the hologram study, where boundary private one more welt, needless strips of lashes align, the lapse to shoreline, flickering her mending regress.

2020 Adam Blewett ©