This elastic thing of my life

Talks out of a feather

I know not now a look

It's the way things come out attached

By the rope of the guts and who pays for the salad

I do we all do and we drink an ocean

To sink to the bottom of it

Two minutes past two by the lit match

Silvers to rain

The whoosh of traffic kind of bounced

A strange orange streak pinky sky lays

Over a chalked horizon

What November 8th is a sign marches down

To the whole salad and nothing but the salad

This means it will never stop the detail pin

Sharp the miracle I wanted to believe the trick I wanted to twist

Freezing tap-water

Hands beneath and that is that

Moulding this side to this membrane

Rubbing a feather off [clap] [clap]