the real aunt, aqueous string on the back of green, tilted baskets.
a truck hole and a machine gun chirp, Kathy rails that toss their lids into a pond.
the stop click and go view of broken collar necks and washed through paper dolls.
the stage set, tigers all in queue, in roller jails, onto those spiny dots, in vacuum fashion and empty oven rooms.
a single dance, not played out, cut-pinned neat, perforated tight through knuckle parties to bring it simmering, truth on wheels.
a tiny fable.