I live by snorting a mixture of remains of the everlasting idea that ashes deepen
as they rise in some relatively Zen manner.

                                                      all copies
                                                  rotting of

                         Claws suspected of scratching can be niches for temples specific to places provisionally served by our ancestors: four buds in a black bin containing the soft sediments of a human soul damaged in proportion to the unconvincing miracles of an inaccessible master.

                                        are bears
                                                in sanctuaries
                                            of coniferous trees.

                             Life is the art that makes singular people by sharpening the gash of their habits.