Base and Fears

Back to the state, a curriculum of beaches, not the grass waving high and pale as weather swings in.

You'll lick the new stamps, place a triangle of glass on your head and wait for an assignment. This is the life of a spy.

Toward daybreak and/or rifle-cracks, we edit our bodies' shape. Inkblot and formulae.

(Two wards the brick hand your idle, slack weed it hour Bodhisattva aping glots and form you lay.)

Pronounce the last word with a shrug and watch the person standing with his jaket folded over his arm at the crossing post.