Boodle fight


Again, to where we take Chinese up to a Yorker
in the cotton folds of an apartment. Arms white on

black handlebars, bombarding welcome rugs with classifieds,
demonstrating the civic sacrality of temperate mornings.
Boy’s on the way, in need of a helping.

New camaraderie allows you the honor:
bury them on this land before you gather your goats and go.
Can we have embargo with the brown please, and

now the soup’s free but how was that achieved?
“‘Caravan’ has a rustic ring to it,”
volunteered a professor in the rice meeting. Fingernails—

so white and pink on this particular hand, in this particular shot—
describe the arc of a burrito lodged in aid of the captain,
his captain. Help’s just outside, twittering on his phone,

in need of a boy. Later, as a high school platoon,
we would fool by shining our combats with baby oil,
never learning how a report could communicate a shut-eye.

What is under your soil will facilitate this device
and how to seed without opening mouths but you must leave.


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