I, with my lawn-mower. I want to lie down here and drink from rain pools. And through the even rain. I touch the sharp spines you raise. I dream of the Man in the Moon, the. Trepidation of the spheres, wrote Donne. Priceless gems of wonder arise from this grace:
Eurasian coots skitter, red-eyed and mendicant. Mabel and Toots, Wanda and the rest. Not on a Tuesday. His voice like velvet. Warm water embraces, relaxing cramping pains.
I must not tear. He buries five tortoises, puts crosses on their graves. A void yawns where fire danced. Dusk falling, moon calling, water cooling. Just a copse, and then a copse, and then. Cough, scratch, fart, all. Et si ça alllait être un amour lubrique.