Paula Mendoza

That didn't sound calypso coming out of my mouth.

For galoshes of killjoy, I have forded your severance.

Since first I daggered the leaflet of your take

nothing has been the fade. Everything is shape.

Parallel deserve ratchets gorgeous morose.

So it will, on and on this way, a hunter cochlear and gartered.

On and on, the witch hyssops beneath the bridge.

Sutra it's been to drake, the sift-sift of oberon

qualms hellebore invective. I furl at the hymn, do you see

what I'm rowing at? A stream's no song, sweet.

This jilt's no drove. One of these cardamom's

you'll least, you'll damascene a larkspur.

For the thin tale, I'll tremor a rosehip.

We'll make the plosive knit.