Morning as a pink slip of tongue, as a milk tread.

Neck-
lace.
Neck-
loss.

Lost to the quilt-view
of an eye.

We deposit our bodies onto the couch, in this way our bodies, the value of them.

The window is a tv with the tv behind it, and the tv is no reflection of ourselves. Except for certain light doing that to a screen.

A kitten has brought me a smaller body. ¹

What bridge have we gone on that’s least metaphorical? There’s one in mind. No bridge is unaffected by the question, and no answer would effect the epiphanic, no way, though some thing about us (as stones are, as heat is, gathered like a service over the pew-ish ridges of our lips).²

How has it come to a knife taking up a sink, to a sponge not taking up with a knife.

That a dome stick, that a brain wand, that a thought wad.

There is a head-back to it. A drop in each eye. My hands do receive. My hands do
to receive. Dued hands.³

We must take a wide-eye to what
we are doing.

How can an egg be different from an egg?

How an egging can set to edge.

The shirt was full of torso for the last time and broke into smaller clot(h)s
rationed to various chores.

¹Wallet-size: the kitten’s own (as a purse demonstrates better than a wallet, how it climbs like a wallet there into a wallet’s laying).
²The parenthetical bridge in a sentence. Mind wandering (mine wander glee!) leans over.
³Dude hands, I’ll say it for you.