Perfect deaf he kept coarse language, figs, or something evil perhaps— ego into the cycle by sunshine is a stone of a thousand voices, God himself a riverbank about his jealousy gathering wood. My heart, my breath the wanderer which smells of perfume. My heart, my breast looked at him profoundly empty with a tired smile like a thin mist, it spots and wrinkles, but he fails to taunt that expectancy. Her body’s on the city’s edge softly as a pleasure garden teaching others to dip and fall as the moon. According to the path of self extinction his shriveled fingers never cooked food, and the stars crossed arms with apprehension vivid old spots of discourse. -Samantha Derleth