Flight and right turn to the air backward. A glancing to a seaming road round a feather to end. A nape a standing clarion but to regular refuge and inside the space of its fled. O my! As the mother canvas and a winch the by-road her claiming breath. Esau's pillow derived the willow strand caring at the edge of a path. And her kirtle. Not something akin to the ever-known but counted by the ray of a sun blanched heat. A circumference of doubt and breath fleeting to an end parried at every square root. A boot a foot walking to the end of her obsession.
Want want want she reckon pay day's bound to come. By the heather
a rail-track twitching.
Hence Franny, Mona, and Jill's still star, a fig to each famine .
Not a decision but breath's ointment.
Is there no balm in Gilead?
Would it hinder, doctor?
