The puppy must be learned of all this material.
by Joyelle McSweeney
No map of the hospital. First, the war effort.
Then, the war itself. The water makes and remakes
its walls. No persons or boats are allowed in them.
This plot is to be played out in the buildings known to us.
Swim for the stick, baby! You've got an anti-sink device.
The nba guard flips forward and back
in his hologram. Fish-fission. Light.
—and found wheels beneath her
linen skirt. The kids mill around like businessmen-clowns.
Their organization is a matter of choice and thus not protected under
Horizonto-rotary gaze beating clearly to the right.
Now, corrected, to the left. Fish! Flip! and Out of Hearing!
Alone in the pink apartment with your little swab.
The moth-mom tries out everything at once: straps on wool,
ties a candle to her head. Don't pity her. She wants to eat the moth!
Which dithers over whether it eats wool or flame.
The skyline lifts, and the gulfstream slips out barefoot
clear to England. Maidens rhinocently down the cowpath clomp.
Toothbrush into yogurt cup, Recyclamente! I am so
adamant. The siren with a catch in its cry starts over.
Eternal transistance. Ent'ring our marriage ride.