« Dean Young | Contents | Beowulf, translated by Thomas Meyer »

Carrie Lorig

s c a t t e r s t a t e

 

 

i do my knees for a long time, and i lush out hard. i launch out hard because it frails good. Like flows, like flower rodeos, i g r e w s o m e, i dark some, and grope myself into full glow. i chase glow into shapes. i chase shapes with barbwire rocks. i cut right into the earth. when i cut grass, i shed objects. the lawn has a moan thread that suits me, that burns me into such a clumsy body, that wobbles blotted me into lop hided blooms that drag a ripping sound behind them. the size of your names, what a strong plush into a living stream of the bizarre soft that is always flying me into buildings. my constant is my hands in the dusk mange. my hands write me with sway tongue, and my stomach gets sway, sway open. that is really, really red, you say with concern. you float with such long sides, and i am stuck with use. i used to be the class globe before i cracked. that was as long as i could surge climbing of the sides. spurs hard around me. chests ridge, turn with star rinse against one another. it looks like a light off when i open up my shirt to show you. it looks like a carve in need of touching. gloved, of course. we don’t speak. and how do you feel? please, barn skeleton. but before i can see you, you cover yourself in red fish life. you pull the chapped water closer around you as you sway walls. when i lose my love openly, the smell drifts to the other fields. the sun landing inside us floods us where we are purple and brown. when you are that color we ask, “is it safe to drink?” and the cattle take that shrug to their dust. i thought i would get older at cupping water. but my hand shallows and mud dries out. eventually rocks will have me this crawl shape. to the touch, i feel strung inside. this feels such a strong wilt of pouring towards you. a rush of some gets through the bars where all the catch hangs. so nicely, the cattle wander into me. i am a sharp knock on the sides to them. i wear cheeks with jeans and i gill and i gill and i open towards a new tinge of hide. i rewest with the pain cattle. i moan tan haaaaaaa. i moan tan land. i dare god with land titles. hi,i’m a fat land flower. hi, i know nothing about my own sound. how do you know anything about your own sound? when i wear shorts, my land sticks out. hi, you are on my land. hi, i’m sorry our sex is not hard to huge through. when close and closing to this range of clasp my damp lines, you will have trouble hearing through the sides meant for you. your insides will bark. you will see chests turning against one another into fluttering. the land is flat, but we ground and are very much like over flesh. very much like creatures, we ample over the lines of different states because it feels like nothing. point to where you want the earth to come out of me. i will hear you working with the animals. i will hear caves toss turns inside me. i will bring me something for quiet to put over my rocks. there’s ash roughly with a grammar leaned on it. the herd grows lower to the ground. they devour a noiseflower. they melt a nightjar by its brim. i look at a word roughly and know you won’t ever be enough gazing. i know more of you deserves to be kissed as soon as you finish reading your poems to me. attention is coming over. over and over, i said with this body lying in the tan of this body lying, pop, this body. every body looks like it is on the top. peoplebodies, i take your teachful face in my hands. your trailhead is sweating line and your hair is ground from dark stores. peoplebodies, we lower trace to the ground. flicker turns back into a forest we could leave in. the bellow or the saw we sing.

 

« Dean Young | Contents | Beowulf, translated by Thomas Meyer »