Vol. 7

Seismic Enthusiast


You can tell humans by
their flocking. They call
them clearings when they
get there. You can tell it

timberline. Become optional,
an erosive classic intercedes.
Nothing now qualifies your
hermetic stare-down. You,
plucking grissom out the ruly.

They, triangulating your knock
forest, sparse Switz, traipsing up
to populate your zero. Wresting
cheesewheels out Alsatian sub-
basements, they set the slabs

tumbling. So the annual rout
commences, mayflies surprised
into tesseracts. You ought not
inveigle them. With respect,
it shows, it tells.

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