1 did investigate & vest my form
(who only a blue shine)
I let raw water know in smear approach,
hear,
why empty at the sculpt
every soft, mean mount vein
have dry and rigid—no—
deep, like concrete miasma
& which her scream too
above is how
I’m so full and angry
when grace should after loom green,
come, & you there
some canvas will never see
about me he was out
we waste mad but always free
