Dry, outside, you’re in the

dusk obtruding.

You’re in one day and out the next

acting a little ungracious (for an interloper).

The moralist is an abyss

unless there is no noise

regaining the dragoons, one should

stop expecting to see her all the time.

A passive figure lying on the grass, virtue is satisfied.

Sleepless afternoons—

the neon stays, compliance with the love you’re telling.

The clay tears are genuine, the servant will perish.