Erika Howsare
Jen Tynes


Or small girls help illustrate the size of large rocks.

In this vein it is appropriate to ignite hornet's nests, disregarding layers, disregarding geodes.

Or dirt daubers, humming, are just as wide a threat. Their examples in cases.

The barn in which the burning nests alight is also full of painted ponies, taken from the show. The horses that develop girls are habits to a sum.

Veins are unsaddled, as if for a riding.
Calcite, fluorite, a sulphur smell when they rub. In a quarry interrogated and sent off on their horses. Small girls with fat lips show the system of learning. A deep well of habit, a welling-up of mud.

Blackened horses are illustrated by the people that screen them and figure deliberate ways out.


Fragments of turf is downstairs and carpeted. Fungus cannot be determined from here. Taking notes on striping sheets I go into the wall at the cardinal points until everything is finally east.

If that's in our right the left is hallway. "Invention numbers our bodies up."

We place a habitat learned from our software, outline of what a beauty. You have an arm that fits an outlet, as conscious as a clam.

Contains no text because of bleach but you can smell them "breathing." A table of oxygen by mass, you are sitting on a rock.

Waiting for cicadas.

Bitching off the weight of a natural book, like insects on leggy vacations, I won't step on no cans or leaves.

I am the writer of the greatest graph. I am the biggest figure.


Inside themselves our neighbors' bodies are some ends, we are mean, we keep kilowatts in a glass.

The oldest invention is a brackish cup of water, hair finally grown out, a jewelry box full of teeth.

The neighbors' sleeping is a deep, clam green.

I feel just like an animal skin lying beside the fire.



Germination requires water and time to kill. We dipped off our shelf.