Ground Level

a fork has
prongs of three spokes

croak said
in three throats a

frog notes
when neck-taking

woods with a design, here
there are people

as soft as feather is as cotton for wearing, but
worn too thin myths jut from the sides, we

don’t want that, got to keep the
tuft strong and the pillows dainty, at

the near place, why
even to exit these details is

creaky, finally
to stop speaking of the traffic

plastic wrap surrounding
each exhale, we

are here in the kingdom
of guerrilla-mash-potatoes, with

smell,
the songs of their air, their
nostril hair

greets us accordingly, soon
rooftops will boil

themselves into water’s endless
river of noise, as

noses dip
their skip and prince

along the purchase they
afford, if we

don’t interject now
we shall find our fingers on the floor, and

severed connections
untie a red ribbon from a three throated

sleeping donkey, these
good things to the people of trespass

helped them find their names, but
take it to this extent, quickly

open the door!

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