Folds. Folding down
together in a group: sliding them around on the floor.
Tilting like a choking child (oneself), two splitting arcs,
two folds
on the inside. In back of. Value? Untouch,
untouch in tree sky, someone in tree sky, tree sky . . .
the internal color
bobs as I walk, flashes. I
pinched the flesh into a little wing.
——-
BURNING HOUSE PRESS 