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Oh yes...the pie on the sill
Wafting through the will
Like a crispy apple shovel
Dissolving into my cingulate gyrus
Agenda of the rural country resumed
With sounds of morning pipes
Strung out from distant foggy hills
Across my lake, my boredom
Postponed by deep moldy smells
Launches with rotten hulls
These rusted iron hinges
Like fused lentiform plaques
A conglomeration of tangled fibrils that I should need
A gait that draws stares I should eat
Were it not so shameful
In this moment, her name, the one from across the way
The pushy one with a towel in front, forgotten
Along with that eating thing
Laying on, the flat deal
Tailor Bell
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