An autofill assisted poem
Poetry lives in the air. Crinkling dawn is so hard. Remember when she said, “I’m gonna leave you early for paradise?” It’s another day of you and me in ethereal dreams. The 90s pirhouette in my old house. My sister canoes in her mortal art. Time drags me towars death, but he pulls me with a balloon string as I ride in a laundry basket behind him, so I’m having literally the time of my life. God saved the love they gave.
Oval ounces of flutterby breeziness
string across the
marinating grass like
crystal balls.
I have been seen through to.
Beneath the weight of the future
blades snap.
Three feet behind Christmas
December 28 is trailing.
She needs a haircut desperately.
Her younger brother lives in New York.
Feted,
on the social circuit.
Dec 28 is sallow,
reminds her neighbors of a really long line.
I got her a job licking stamps at the unemployment agency.
No one sends her envelopes out.
Yet in her spare time she wins poker tournaments.
Her face hasn’t betrayed her in years.
Miniature Moon 