I ran

cold underneath the under-the-wreath of the red pined under-mind mind of mine

He stood

shoveling the less lovely tosses of moss-less covering the beating vessel of mine

She heard

never to weather the leather-ful vestibule only ridiculed yet resting assured

I was

caught hooked on the line between 12 and 6, making it three of us

Triangles, but angles less right and more skewed passed the undertaking of two

no more she wore for the whore was less clear as to who the two conceived

neither three, for three unto thee transpired two one


I was

I ran

off the edge of linger-dom.

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