newest for class

the assignment was a memoir, but unpersonal. so no pronouns.




“when the wind rushes by where the foot was, it gets chilly”

stood in front of faces to reach up to the lips. just wanted to climb something. nothing would impress all. the red scrap metal amphibian licked teeth out of mouths. carried the previous night and a pigeon wing in pocket. offering an olive branch to the music box Viking through a series of 1001011000100. built a nest for five children’s t-shirts, grounded jaw, and eyes on back. was going to sleep in a real pile. when the pile was sound, found lost finger, but sewed it to hand. six and four is two hands. the bear held head through the morning and spelled adorable backwards. wool as tangled in exposed tibia and trailed to the door. the cursive urine read: “post script don’t want to step on wet floor.”