SHELL, SHE*

SHELL: Call again.

SHE: I don’t know what to make of it, or the light-belly

SHELL: is it his speak-shadow, a lie next to

SHE: Yes. He did hips. Ceiling, resurrect something!

SHELL: No, I meant to twist bodies, daisies, into a faith you could hold onto

SHE: Like the grass is asked to give, I don’t know, something I couldn’t.

SHELL: No, your neck to me. Bless ceilings. Lie next to.

SHE: When swirl-towards stares at hips, I call the daisies, pray: letter-me good. letter me to moon something I couldn’t.

SHELL: I understand. But can-he can’t take the handed ceiling, twist. Into faith.

SHE: Can-he, like grass to me. Bless hands, walk toward belly and bellow, where light begins.

SHELL: Speaking of I Am, unhook hips, once he sheltered in your shoulder.

SHE: Letter-me, call can-he’s body “Blessed. I miss.”

* note: from the “not-quite-sure-what’s-going-on-yet” series

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