She polishes cobblestones
and puts eyes at the moon.
One hand over, the other
clutching at spoons.
There’s a beetling blaze
up the opposition head.
Pierced the lag with her neck in tow.
The blowing bastard
nicks quick symmetry.
Once again over the breakfast ache
shake the shook foliage
spook the gambit. And a kink
in the what. She collects bird calls
and sleeps in a scallop.
Polishes cobblestones
and puts eyes at the moon.
-r. miller
*Insert Propaganda Here* 