No you don't think about shells
often. We couldn't dig up
because the followers were dead,
deep and compact bodies
in salt, preserved tonight in
space and fuck.
Newness eludes me, since
dawn comes swarms.
Trucking occurs near the planet
church of offered offerings,
resplendent bells shook
my front lobes of meat,
glittery inside French doors.
Cycling noses taste familiar
because each side opening
conquers the senses.
Flush out easy beginnings
tonight, because peanuts
stone the ground so evenly
that I cry, mistaking faces
of dust for my own face.
Yonder snow is housing
fishheads underneath other
smaller fishheads, cloaked
in even touches.
