photo by my mother

Women as a way to announce sound, I poured holes in the ground awaiting furtive instructions. How the occasion headlined myth in the manner of unfortunate song in the midriff of summer, I answered phones for a living and was not dead, dispensing treats by the beach, opening doors to strange directors for I had no bank or pony and the ball remained mine in a childish way. To write letters without degree or to sit up seeing signs of sleep from a long time ago glowing like a silent movie in the background of the mind, I couldn’t say what mosaic was anymore in the sea of anomalies. Stitching days to the invention of customer in the late afternoon weight, the later ones dealt our life love and aqueducts — infinite fables of a wild, embellished scenery. With what voice tended toward mercy in its stable, I implored them to stop motioning in hallways as cadence defied abstraction. Order had no place.