by John Pursch
Most of us meet the repair team all alone, flipping through state machine output to pass the queuing trill. Exchanging identifiers de rigueur, ceding contrails on worn rugs, we prod the timeline, step by ungainly scuff, heaving lone assemblies of interrupted teens. Hooked retorts imply a lackey’s habitual restraint, filching a buttoned sheet of cottonwood world, chipped to sawdust stammering. Cradled calm ensues, prevailing under soothing symbolic silence, pleasing dual handedness with asymmetric toast. Autonomic hearses remind the stapled scrawler to belt a crooning colt’s dangling vial, dribbling through encapsulated walls, reaching into packed chores. Greetings peer at idiomatic stallers, excreting a gruel of rising smiles. Notice pends, angelic histories elude episodic lollipops, and newborn formulas fend for notebook pleats.
No comments:
Post a Comment