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.