Will Sampson with his Boot in Motion

Will Sampson with his Boot in Motion

Debride by gentle bearing are being clear and felt

   for a taffeta ball. Threw about by nightshirt blent

within shadow. Will gash about in this the visible

   plumage. Made carrion claws clutch about a nick

line did harbor such piercing pleasures. I muffled

   about on my mouth. Had pressed to a pillow been

made healed and free. And there are darker fields

   out through the glass that barred between us too.

And another bird floating over. Held on delicious

   thoughts between the eyebrows. That go up only

to an ephemeral juicy fruit flavor packet. To faith

   lines I humbled on. There are a thousand rooms

in this psych labyrinth where a palm were being

   held by out raging into plastered hat. Fancy angel.

Spilt stone worn. If I were to be inspired in these

   uneasy ascensions. If I were only to climb through

more window. One thing calmed to no tongue did.

   Brought back to life by his gum. And the heaviest

work boot struck my butt. Then I got my sack back.

Ubdop

Ubdop what doing done. At

                        slump of the being which has

been made slipped into such

                        unique summer an irresistible

course. Ubdop these crackly

                        butterflies and we are emphatic

wings. Half of abandon being.

                        Then arise deepens with huge

a sullen let does. Was enough

                        ubdop the abdomen now lacks

in us. For only in them did our

                        perplex eye have budges leant.

Formed of our gentle stretch is.

                        There we are stood upon with

pedestrian peepers out. Huddle

                        the elegy from which is burnt.

Ubdop than by a smitten sun.

                        Ubdop what seems selfish was

left to rush under a plain table.

                        Ubdop a wander leg flown off

so still could we cut a heavy hem.

Blueberry

Storm and Erik at Madeline Island

James in Duluth (by Nick Autio)

James in a Dome (by Bette Autio)

Had Bryter Wan

  I stuck out my trudge. And I lay very still.

I gave set upon my marsh light. Stretched

   out my under there. Ran whole only until

wandering into my crinkle gaze. Went to

   flesh by about had seem strange. Here my

head muster parsed within my own racket

   being heard. The other weed that come on

later. I bent by my blossom rose. Will not

   dream again of hooves that hackled back.

I birth then which breathe were as hidden

   in progressive fissures. Had I float out in

the burnished sunshine. Paled on a twitch

   being. Had now a beginning uniform into

which I tipped a hat to. I had pulling away

   slept into glances. Then I dissipated back

to my crooked furrows. Simple than to the

   morning struck. It is under by poise tipped.

Andeg Waabishkindibe - gesso on journal cover

“That wet prickle is her lip”

Casual rain the pot flood. Bent hinge slipped

onto that angel billet were an ark barges. Held

a put over let plunge the crinkle sea glut. Numb

the page is elated. Were a hostile drift dimmed

in this lifted drought that melt of such mockery.

Clothe the passage lean. Cane a seamless ocean.

Had edged by soften cataract nibs. Eyes prickle

to the salted impulse were dark and mewling.

Shadow on irradiate gullet. Crouched at false

etching. Had balanced of each swift thatching

that shielded the idle wharfs. Widen the bland

parsee. Would dusk have exile under departure

gulls. Resume the sea wash light, the creaking

rain. Subtle thorns a water bride emptied to our

cull haunt. In a thimble perish by transfigured

drizzle had condescend to weary on. Been the

delight each downy wet burnished for every

dribbling eyebrows. Brimmed by ocean tides.

Brimmed by fermented aromatics we smoked.

Cliffside

Cliffside. The ship gets safely home.

Bread left by the bluer shoals. Bent

of this painted earth. Clearing these

simple banquet on the hasten rudder.

Let pleasant the becoming unchained

onto the sun. Will produce amongst

such a dynamic hinge. Let claim the

spillway never happened. Brushing

the dream strand. Stood on a trusting

water and met by many replacement.

Had not yet remained from extended

reflective sea. Crooked furrow wave.

Her heroine been phased into paper

sails. Awaken to old leaves filling.

They are grafted on a canvas of days.

Further to be contained. The way has

cleared. So much night fell upon the

cave hole. So much cliffside made

of a circling sends. Did shifted past.

And even because when moon mends

there are waves of dark poured over

head, orb poured into an open sieve.