Researchers have floated thru bent grass clearings, trembling with dictation. The reeds of spacious marsh exude trifle as document. Quick foxes set up pounce, with ducks clear of forgiving.
Our list of images skirts the real issue: are red planets falling in line? Dolour sweats thru us, cuffing fresh pangs with regency. There are tears in the marsh, the highway, with electric lines and squirrels. Squirrels explain sinking ships to James Cameron, then sadness features film. A rationale exists, again. I wrote this all down.
Down lasts three. A day, at least, is covered with fur, tho the foxes all got away. The marsh is a placid dump, a document of people playing fifes. Fifes are a note of freedom, near a highway. When we walk home, the noise is a spectacle, sights are loud. A stunned public leaves their leftovers.
Curiously, the Bible stops bandits. A meteorite lights a small acre of sky. Passing cars on plastered highway sway thru various versions. No one gets out of the space vehicle, nothing does.
Useful facts become foxes, political units, women and men. Our race to particular fluctuates with a cold morning. Jupiter and Venus looked great with the moon. Perspective changed and you cannot repeat the purpose of foxes. Bears are a distance of kilometres, almost miles.
A poem is a loose heaven of cats that missed meals. This does not apply to mornings with the colour of spring open. Words turn, poems stain arrangement, winter falls into place. Moles blend in blindness, which is not the necessity of trees. Place your vision in the closest verb, a toll to get at mire