EVERYTHING IS AHISTORICAL

EVERYTHING IS AHISTORICAL

your crossed wood
way, a cord,
the set of stones
called venerable, a
land found and found-
ed on the backs of ghosts,
all the spilt type left
to stain once virgin
sheets.

FLASH

FLASH

week and so

sept able—suck

you land—if

lawed—pear said

an drams, brew

said, clay aimed.

laughed on tushed,

lift on fail'd,

massed knightly, morn

and, mist—on

ray play said,

on ray play

said.