One’s varieties

Proximately, my algebra that they
may not know you as you know you,
consummately solute like so:
the sound of particulates sucked in
between front teeth, toddler only
for the selfsame density, clinking
twain left and right outgrowth
at a mere one decibel a perfect
inch above nothing, in the order
of three syllables pronounced how
gravity is sensed by the twain eyes,
or Monte Tayne Nye in a pulpit.

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~ by Jeremy on November 10, 2012.

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