A Dark House

The accretion of a perfect squall
when claws were out-

scavenging novelties. A lewd
paranoia slains a farewell

in a trench. The chamber has
vomited a mound of gold blinding a shell.

The combs did not straighten
the puff. The old man was very lonely.

I would stop hunting the stings
of a bare-chested moon.

I recuse myself from judging the paperboat
which wanted to cross the ocean.