Hog lard and turpentine for the mosquitos plus others for the smell.
I’ve hated that creek since I was three apples high. It’s incapable.
Suspension bridges, fourth century. Every mountain wants to be flat.
The bones of her bird may kick into dance when it floods.
Out of the unworlding peatblack dripstone, you would think a hammer but
In our case nobody would slow down or look at us. An inch a year.
Bred for it: a piece of corn on the cob abandoned on the railroad tracks.
The spring wants the steepest, weakest of shingle, vowel.
A crater has no suffix. In a single syllable, it bullfrogs black out of black.
A twig of bird spine pricks the soft silt bottom, and names bud across our