Thomas Lowe Taylor -- THIS'RD WHIPPLE

***************


What's your fortune at hedgerows overturned
without plenty, but no more than that, and
overheard, like another name for, forgiveness.

You are outer, this at spoils made again,
or finishing-out what is there within context
contests for ahead is motor-tuned your split

two kneel other, hears them lining turns allow
this at other, at one benign his singular remote
are tallow flips hit otter autumn, no meaner

skill ahead, would plus-it; finishing fixes
the light ahead is prenatural, or lax.
It'll fend. Hemisphere perpetual, then, I'll

later knox, your own heaters are blistered
past not, or of other often, enough to be
believed for the moment of what is history.

But a plus, then, might skill further not seems,
and heal us tight knots not laid up or aside
either, meaning tight against her holds.

Meeting looted flange, maker spotted within,
thinking or loss of figure-rider regime, then,
and answering soon along microphone play

you'd flax, at spin-central no outers binge
light asking love's spin and twinge of the
heart's demeanor, a tight sigh, tonguing in.

Art ships woolen tang of, light of, heart's
withering spin, and tallow tarts a frostier
binge-line; yours is the motor fallow. It's.

Not blistered again. Inner risking piles it on
from what's hot as against light itself; motor
spin is healer shoal, the pasture's ringing in.

I'd shoal her in, perhaps now, and find against
nothing, your own heart beating light to light
the roving terminal re-secured in time for now.

I'd shove it in, too, to presentiment and asking,
for the later time your own heart peeking in
somewhere between then and now, sharping flats.

But spun along the time this, a fathom, a density,
perhaps soon, but still your own, and singing
this is not meant to hold down flames beginnings.

Real her following this renew another mark is soon enough for something tallow flamed, the other spinning rhythm against what is your own name, and if so, now beginning to start what flames it up is still a new beginning to be the same as what follows hat to hoard, but not the other sign of what was held to follow in the other markers of your own red predicating on the formal or less abstruse flingings of the detail on your moonfaced allocation not doubt this is still the afterglow and in this in-between no other hole is meant to split or single, these resemblances of the other doubt you said was still between idea and its descriptions. The fallow term turns, this against itself in less forlorn implications rub their hands in, uh, glee, is not too far off the track to belittle threads finishing donuts are held brown along their own liner attributes the plasm intensity heats this rough surface air to air muscles the attribute of plasm still held against repetition in the other scores of Hollywood, no plenty or figurine atmosphere is hard against simple legends of simplicity in another time would press ahead in grey, in not, but singing down one is enough to sleep and three will get you through the fog, no detail enough but to harp thread spree, still set eye dew a log, frog retail is rough and plenty heats the doorway across your own eyes there is a closeness to the surface to bleat and shore aside some other density is pooled aside to hold them down, lithe and singular, the pooler's at the musk, and riding by.

Portland, Oregon
April 1, 1992