the lampshade. She writes well within
the confines of the almond cloud. pushes.
pushes out
the fennel in an exhaustion only
traipse bean bags count with
saggylips. I implore the wagon wheel
do not count ugly between your
straight spokes squeeking across desolate lapland and
scraping the last walking escape from vivacious earth
below. Understand
Understand the concavity of a woman can hold
myself. myself talking of myself. or
that I'm gone, another obsidian stone one would
never wish to dream of in the night
of moth fauna black, scarlet licking at
the last hopeful candle, melting.
Joseph Elebaas: I am a Christian writer, living in West Michigan.