Still Be Her Without a Thunder Green of Morning 
 
The droop she drags into once and does it further, along the eye's ridge, greening with a board of arm, as he reaches to forcep, to unplug this specious plane. Taps the neighbor: now unpin this red finch, stitch where steam escapes me, for is it the same in your socket during a certain launch—the no bananas. We arrived eager of pincer, could sit and know follicle weight, the lips of watching. Hum it through my gape if it's since wilted like our helmets in night; use your fingers to stairs the plane, to give the firmament off my cheek and nestle it amongst the window where you watch as itself, slanted like vents with timbre, weighted. Say I am unbirthed of color, I've lain, made rooms of dripping, hadn't wanted to inject olive words spelled the body conveying a sled. 
 

Sea 

Moan you die once. A tincture—a spume. Of me to firm merely of it. The stethoscope invented for the mouth—the brain—has us, watched. How her lip can dive, become hiltless. I must graze until I find thimbles to wear them. Iron capsules for my often eye-beams, trail the boat. Not rudder—guiltier. Arrives, the floor twines and drugs: our hair of hers.