“ The Horizontal Autist

and how can i

say your tongue

conspiring hug when

these leaves tend

the oak’s hand apart

and how could i

figure you

in what wasps

skirt the militant

cupped air with

and how turn i

to secret clue-

scented rooms where

eyes tilt shields

but mime them

and how love them

i without like

a dipped spun likeness

a junk moon inflated

in hot white lies?  ”

beautiful

voynich

tongue

conspiring

wasps

of

the

junk

moon !

endless

inflation

of

idiocy

now

that

sounds

real !