Cold, enduring mammals, tresses of aviation from
last century’s manner brought moors to life, then ordained
contracts with whomever seemed arresting or fit for envy, masts
of nothing significant laterally known as between. Emasculating
the unfortunate laps of river ribbons, to have known every hem
prophetic and private, if pleasing, relations diverted the
woods of which a mother—men smiling and seeming
soulful—was a sweeping whiteness toward scruples,
furrowed against the wife of grinning, a script of the
startling kind, her often witnessing laconic nights
writ large of bargains, no singing sorted down.

So a belying no more exists for hats of satisfaction than
for the story of this man: a lost ligature bargaining one
of its selves into nothing undone, available from the
optimal sea scenery that those small (very small) beings
ever wanted; that is what I know, and that truthfully.