She swore, pan soaping. I’m guessing brown bat, crow asunder le shawl-shaped collar. A needed house pith we sold gluttons. Her smell a discordant riddle, glyph of State bafflement. Sand lures all spines, heads, had drifters (bad) in charge not of ribbon that fell over her instep. She (bad) had naught self, a goner, biting paste, pen-shoulder, enveloped a thought. She had not herself to write to. She busted lure in kelp, booked her shelf, and in the mirror picked up a boy-look, as when, dreaming between the lines, there were moose on her geese. She belonged au travail or “No, go back!” to re-augment. He, daunted, a lie, but she also chanted, “I’m a terrorist!”