By Arkava Das
now i have to pull out
(till my elbows scrape) tilt my head)
it modifies the azimuth
(somewhat incident) (wiped)
“You can just see a little peep of the passage”
this taper states three shapes
blueing on the fork
“Had I three ears, I’d hear thee.”
dry cellulose between lips
much mush
bite a spoon if nothing seems available
“in Looking-glass House, if you leave the door”
drilled a metal pouch under my tongue
(needy fashions) (the colonial grudge)
a snagged nest
this coffee smell comes from leaves
(drawn to) ants)
creosote lines
(finally sunlight) (synchronicity)
Clutching at Straws 