LITTLE

LITTLE

The dead don’t come around too often

you might have heard to hear

and thawless clothes of beget – me – not

 smickens around those

          fastened spheres

and radiate before too late

all back around again

this little little isn’t warrior or indicator

or sunlamped dampened thirsty avenge. 

I hated it in

          subtle black

                 or wrapped up paper pen, I took along a

vest for tower, for pussycat and when;

like drenched in this, 

supposed suicide house kempt,

a little winded while you housemind, 

the wind-times

singing send

              shattered gatefold with too late thunder, 

sigh swept

              admidst a chaos for eternity and should taper this to end.

nicolee ferris

08.11.01