Lance the soil. The lot sings tar songs. slow night murmurs
Gwen, vivacious warbles with it smoothing now slowing
sweet orbits arranged in strides the length of cannon echoes
repeated in tongues; a round.
Table that thought, mixed into new nones. Final fright and lost
How cannily he sings, his tongue locked in step with the evening
shivering outward her tune tasks the air where once solemn
ministers rounded. Carmine and Leather. Softly now.
Dearest neck, why do you fade so pale