The thing–the foot ruler thing–in the shoe store–it tells your size? I can't remember what it is called. What is it called? in 57 Octaves Below Middle C by Kevin McIlvoy
I'm happy to know that machines, too, make good cookies. I am amazed how alike the cookies are. That sounds like I am so damn old. Damn. I am. And I forget and then remember and forget it is a world in which a person can go to his computer window and look through and see what to have a so-called mom-and-pop company send to a hungry person.
The thing–the foot ruler thing–in the shoe store–it tells your size? I can't remember what it is called. What is it called? in 57 Octaves Below Middle C by Kevin McIlvoy Bender could see me. She looked at me, reading my ingredients. Hungry, we both had listened to the God-hype you had to swallow in order to be allowed to eat the soup at this mission. The tables were set in the chapel that once had a God's-eye skylight. Through the screen of sloppy black paint over the eye, full moonlight smudged her gaunt face and temples, her silvery upper lip and jaw.
At dusk, as always, Bender sang to us, in 57 Octaves Below Middle C by Kevin McIlvoy There is a love that is a reflection of love's reflection. There is a frame inside the form, there is a vice you use to force the edges to bind. There is the floating or flying seed still in the grain. The stars arisen, the kingdoms fallen, the green, the void; you touch the tuning fork across the skin of the sky, snow, rain still in the sound. Moonlight. Sun. Nests in the limbs, and in the nests the hungering young.
The Luthier's mother's mouth's openness, in 57 Octaves Below Middle C by Kevin McIlvoy It was as if he'd never before seen a woman's sweater arms not covering her slight wrists, not ending at her elbows either but where, according to some fashion rule, the sweater arms must end: at her mid-forearms, which made him wish she might take it off and become for that one visit not incomprehensible.
Black sweater, in 57 Octaves Below Middle C by Kevin McIlvoy You'd rather stay in your rosy warm car inside the margins of the major thoroughfares salted for you on schedule. Do you have a turn signal, driver? A single unrestrained impulse? A side or rearview mirror?
Road Open–Gone Soon, in 57 Octaves Below Middle C by Kevin McIlvoy |
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