You mimic me, you unforgivably detract from peace of mind. You offer me your first flight out. You reverentially look past my windows where you show me an unfurling, and you zigzag out of line. You tell me secretly your stories filling open season with heretical endearments. Over time I rush to catch to hold your fall. I lose you as you channel

Something to be channeled. You don't tell me. I don't ask. The secret of a story is to leave out the real story. The indulgent fake left offers peaceful tilling of gigantic soil prepared to grow what we consume when we have need. The matter of fact insolence you side with gives me amperage. Depletes my home of roses. Tank the soil, be with me. Train the eye.

Trill bits. Drill bisque. Till lisp. Fracture caesurae for the season that you were . . .

I tremble in your treble, and I anchor how the song . . .

A litmus chapter of my outpost. Glistens wide. You sort out spoils. Recoil at the altimeter a round of golf. Retro sinecure and drought. Lift glass.

Give grasp a fortune (cookie) where the light hangs low and coded. A remarkable new codicil will blush when you breath reason into handmade faces filled with plunge.