The negation of a false note in deciding meals. Wire-wrapped beak, your voice, a powerline, breathed life into us with your silly songs. The absence of sound is how we speak, just kinda takes its time. Rejecting the whispers of propriety, only do what you want to do, dark hair pulsing. Muffled tones, late or lit, sotto voce. Hear me, I am writing this for you, will ask you if maybe the 24-hour hormone cycle is not true. Believing it wasn’t wise to talk as she worked, Maria would think. Susan stammered. So what? Oils turn syllables into visions of invasive species, dust that never leaves the lungs, and wham! Internal rhyme.
