History would seep in underneath the cracks in your skull, preciously.
The tattered drapes in your home, and all the quiet places you sleep during dark
This Ivory tusk sticking into your neck. (caused for the ) Clavicle enlarged everyday until the knife is fully ripe.
Even though history’s acquired dissatisfactions ( with itself is permanent and her stale breath moves on in his colorful confusion. )
I love it.