Trundled home in the argyle book-ended by breakwater light. Disemboweled of the mindset inaugurating me. How the wanton cherry children do alarmedly tick when husked of their luxurious headmilks. How I have wizened from these tiresome aiblins. How I slough gums of myself. By the laurel, primping my eyes. Lest the wanderlust go on wanderling. Here she looks prepared to sleep inside her own throat. Loblolly, the great eliminator. She parts my face where it is least assumed to part. Her unbelieving gauzes. Her diffident wrists like two cadavers. An entropy that meadows one gully and sums another, or how else does the dysphotism tip betwixt her teeth, currogated and molten? She don’t own rain-gear. Rain comes and she susses from it the seeds that alight her tongue in glowers. How stationary they look though wretching the planet is. How inside I am abled. How gestured. And Jesus don’t I know the pronate reaching of years into the chest Christ of an opened horse I do I do.