events of hours hoped or wished down

pretty little, 53 to 55


The events of hours: by tomorrow I am chiaroscuro. I am whimpering, almost, with the night now and still, once again, of light and shade I'm made. I think as usual, hiding in time, an affect of silence.

Consistently a chicago coffeeshop, it’s contrasted light and moderately I attempt to hardly be here at all. Just a beautiful shadow created by furnished apartment. Choke back in the unnoticed French light falling unevenly. Preparing tears a mind never blue from two; I produce a clear cherubic direction. That adjoining abruptly, the life of me, all throwing soft light in. Seeing, difficult & dry. I’d like to wake on the table, leaving love hard and saying, knowing, thinking, goodbye at the rest of a room.

A dance around things, an epic poem, the East in chiaroscuro. To prepare then. Somehow, take me for some marked action mythology; have you found humor to recommend me? might a fire you are looking for?

Black must do to be breathing around. Velvet forms a part of female singing. I try singing it too, for me to keep most interested. The head knows all the words, I loudly need the feel. I never hoped or wished down.

modern underparted

And the sweet ones, all having names. I like the looks about, through a slotted glass a peach or salmon through the pines, the last of the fleshy sponge day. A true summer one. My own little sweet fleshy peach one with the dewy down sits in sitz, I'm with the water rush through pipe in ears, adjacently by rooms. The too many pungent flowers behind, still awaft though twilight somehow nonexists tonight. I like this luscious spring, the hot of sun fingers still presst against the uppers of arms and backs. All brown and ripe like insides of fruit themse.ves

too night

Just in through the beak strainers. The green water! awaits you. It, and all the leaves it holds. Bayleaf floats. They are, the ones fallen from the above, the half-shade maker. Liking the ducks, the subtler commandeer, and the orange beaked, unsure footed ones.

helloes, helloes springs

In like the hollow ones, in and outs. It not being right to do it, but it still, all same. I like the ideas more than the movements. The rank sniffs of here, the warm air coming in through the open window at me, making threats and promises about a there ahead. A there, a head.

My golden tea and the quiet call of birds, the twitters downstairs too. My own hands in my own dirt, but today I feel inclined, roombound. And apologize. He is, again, here, again. The call of a perch. The polite gusts, my polite fists gently clenched. In his gently clutched.

such the joys from out of its

Isn't until I've thought of it, thought it through, but how strange to have all the trees be pink! I'm liking the views of seeming fronds, seemingly leafed in pink as if not by fluffs. My fingers can barely contain the letters about it.

red-breasted nuthatch

Hath nut notch a breast hat. My little birds flit fast, like little bombs they dive seemly straight towards me. But not the window, and somehow stopping perfect at the little wooden house filled with black oil sunflower seeds. And their straight little nutcracking beaks hold the shells of one or two. The female is so full with eggs by now she barely can find food to feed. Her man goes around for two and brings back for her, the darling. I like a little high peeping he makes to wake me. Even before I have glasses on early I watch him around.