9866. OF ALL THE THINGS

OF ALL THE THINGS

This perch affords me nothing; the sailor's

mast, a failing turret. The eyes of the swan

are brutal, running backwards on a endless

lake. To be confused with the sea is wrong.

-

Wherein the does this air force lie? Are we

to bomb the escarpment only to sit too

late and fail the challenge. ?

-

I took a friend to Bitting's Brewery, at the

bottom of Main Street. Endless junk juice,

and full-service half-staff. The flyers

have died in their tumblings.