You touch my lips more than my old wife, but how could I love you? With a red-handle knife from the shed my Honey painted teal, should I slice open God, the natural fabric felt as zephyrs and grass mites, and kneeling next to my toolbox with the loose latch, rewire the laws binding Venus and the Higgs boson,
The vows went off. They really burned it down—those old folks. They really moved at the fan’s-edge shadow of their feet to god knows what they felt that rhythm was. The girl herself was quiet, sweet. The bones sagged like blown wheels in a broth of tripe and bullion and the foils round the almonds came undone. One by one
