Word/ For Word # 2

Damian Judge Rollison




anyhow the day's
     been sleeping
                 for pooled blood all day
now it drapes
                 little dishes
     itself in an evening
but they made
                 its body
     becomes less weighty
                 of everything not solid
                 they were tired and easier
to carry your bones said
     the edges
     of acute in tiny breaths morning
     had cut
holes in its
hide to the air
     now the dull coat
                 it opened itself
                 moonlike glow
flame screen
     dusts its
     was a languishing
in your heart knuckles
     the fire i lit with whiteness








linoleum attenuation
the sun
   is snapping hard
and he wanton soft flips

wanted what
   to cut linoleum

is wanted
      above medicine
linoleum not an ax

in smart
      writes its doing that
the night
   stringing with rising a wife

it has
   own shaping or thinning poems

travellings thru
      a small house
by accident and sharpening






       I called you on the phone not so far in our dancing, but those whose face was split are still standing up far within the news, a new window: who read it in books, and left us a slip, skins from poems on the phone. It's Thursday, 2:14 AM, the Divine Word whose face I'm getting sings. Along a lone a rear window lightly a green wind was creaking along until a green wind are deceived, Ted, it's 2:14 AM, I'm lying back, writing a sign, by multiple skin, a lip, to the labyrinth-proud Highway, obscurities spits and it's hard to get sings and ambiguities from poems, of all sorts it was hard to get.
       I called you Ted. They take you -- let us sing your one sense of the wild west at the entrance whose face was split, are still standing up for another; Ted, people die every day if it's Thursday. Hello, proud Highway, it must be used to it, they do not discover underground the angel of the wild west, swept it in our dancing and us in certain passages to and about raining.
       So I'm writing a rear window, they corrupt good legs, the angel spun us a sign in the canary wires. Even this getting used to it was split, by going so far if it's Thursday as to get the news skins, make them a slip underground, a green wind false into the raining telephone. I held up a sign and the news was creaking along. It's 2:14 AM every day but it must not be lying back low but raining Hello.




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