throwaway piece feb ‘22

to check

(again.)

while on the mend

from last attack

of eros’ pen —

as arm of tree to sparrow’s nest,

if arrows met at trunk of chest

pretense of treasure, absent sense

up to me to still regress,

despite how much dust Doom collects;

when sweetly sweeping talk-through-teeth-ing broom-on-carpet mac & cheesing

william wills what just won’t do

so here i go

checking on you