The particular head manages its space funkily. To off into that obscure morpheme and meandering medium of: universal time.
Labeled (accordingly street signs follow) as this poetry which, accordingly, manages the street signs, a magazine names itself: poetry. And to follow, some do and some do not want to inhabit it.
A tailored suit feels comfortable, but one must like the material. A suit of foil feels streety, gritty. A cloud suit, well, difficult.
So, to suit for poetry means that flighty into those places (ah, Keats) of: fear, eh, no.
Placed between the real and what makes the real, the incubation period must fit rather suitily, but to what tailor can we drive, park, and walk into? Then out of. Often, it seems, in the next town. Or, right on the shelf. Or, a few moments before the real can snatch away from the making of the real. Really.
So, the suitors linger now and actually want pants and shirts and shoes before visits. Oh, sit so. Legs cocked.
Concretely, a desk. Kierkegaard liked everyone to think he ran around town, café to café, and fooled them. Though, it seems, not us. His space engaged then disappeared then engaged from the disappeared. So his mapping accounted for that other place. So, this hand reaches around a screen to place a book so (perception as index) for spelling, this so for future reading, this so as reminder.
Once, a hand placed on the chest went through the chest. Now it’s