the smell of olive. it happens in the interest of soaking away
reverie underneath swarthy flutter
if at last you want to (vanish) under the ghost-
ly va-
le abandon her encounter. smell of burnt ochre
worse
than the saddened countenance -- her innermost artifact.
if the frequent exchange of memory’s swiggling away, scare off vines
that tangle trussed hair. smell of horseradish. black
milkbog undamning a bitter river's solidarity
the sound of ghostflutter.
©2005 by Ryan Laks
