the people who tooled up, too

*

heart’s larceny

screwed up. To be sure

a scary

*

close of some radionuclide adrift in the

willow-wind . . .

bidding for a box-lunch fate, o,

*

empty the sky is, empty of us

concrete. The noble sense of how

to a

? sunset. The sun

had to race.

For Starry, too, is a

matchbox artificer. Who has an odd

even’s the devil-thread. Who

crows’

wax ... This, too, marks the surety

Straight from the sharp, acute in-

verse of cats. Spats of cats and souls to

who knows? Who!

the strange from the narrow? The

*

Empty casting . . . Who?

whole hill, leaves scattered

passage. Shadows rippling down

idea; but there is still the old

beckons with a brightnesse, with no

seek the first dry things of Spring,

crooked thing of thorn, a

*

A cross between cupid. And the devil pours

leans to the flow;

and the watch-faces are:

*

because the devil was small, still a child

of lightnesse; till the breath

of one who is not

weakens the stone. For the moon’s a

tourist here, on a ferry to

dreaming place. Where the azaleas

conspire and wind-up the

*

witch-hunts.

Formalities will occur at the

Only at the Eastern

Corridor and floor to floor with

Moon. A

shrubbery ferrets hillside,

brought about by luck; and yet

*

pauses

Night the artifact

toe to toe with cats, a

wonder the

Y’s cake. Pour

The cat walks, wind in her face . . .

A wicked,

?

*

barn. Give up hoping . . .

over and over, shoes

boring through the solidest. To ex-

*

In the holiest of times, death

there, thinking

A

lucky toss of the hat

A chronic

May wine. A boot, a shoe.

*

wearing thin sure

with holes. The humble press upon the

whole sick

*

nanocurie on the tongue glows;

seconds pass, you

badly off, and where?

Mister Hare in the barley.

flare, fly, fall.

Like the true man’s tryst

dust, buried sky-high in the

Tootle.

To chisel the word from runic-work

did, o,

*

hill in sky snows, white

Illusion: ghost of Mad’s

Wilds the . . .

Cats . . .

Go wild and

keep. Stay away from eld

embedded alpha-emitters,

pipes and picoliters,

don’t breathe: hope

The hot star in the lung’s

not: for hope

hops. Yes,

tint the glade on the stone heap’s baldy.

*

Stairway too. Give up candles and

Starry glows in clothes, too

an oddball river

peppers.

bingo parlors roar for Mars on the tide

flow of rats and

*

Catclatter, Catfool. Catperson . . .

with all her flagrant colors

an outlaw

*

greased lightning and

leave faith at door: under stone

lizard a cat spies. Bite, cat, bite!

For–on the floor–

, all cats know:

the ending is more starry than the door;

Faith is of the earth, like silver grasses

Gentle doubt makes an ism of–

into a prism. Ocularia. It reads

you right, human. The whole iron hill

abduct the art: The end goes on longer than the

Start; that’s why it’s

called "the end"

Mac Wellman