traded for the raw.

The body awoke ready to go, bit chomping.

The mirror folded; I fell inside.

Slipping between thighs. Breathy ardour.

Missing the coverage provided by the forest, traded for the raw exposure upon the lapping shore.

Everyone can hear my morning stomach growl, but doubt they do.

What’s the point?

The finality of a punctuated period.

The capital letter leads the presentation of the subsequent subject of a sentence.

Verdict of friction made visible by the absence of the fricative.

Does it taste as I imagine? Salty and acrid.

Does it pass through the nostrils in musky humid drafts?

Expelled and rolling down cliffs of pronounced pelvic bones.

White capped.

She takes coffee here

The burn of the glare of a mal-humored bend of sunlight

coming through slats of blinds.

Water boiling in a pot before being poured over the Hummingbird blend.

Coffee soon with heavy creamer.

Thighs still sore from quaking.

Ass still sore from tightening in nervous tension.

Cheeks still sore from smiling so hard for so long.

(And, she looks for some sort of transition here,)

And, finding none,

She moves to the

Room under the moon.