Only practicing,
it atrophied. The
lead; mount up.
The flank plan
fled, though who
inhaled it lost
as sand through
fingers—them &
lands in slowly
growing ovals
Idly pushing 'round
self-same, the light
out dim or absent—
matters not
throwing mess of stuff mal-
content with utter context
of ugly body, container
container-holder ousted.
Your sins have never
left this house
