Infernal Terrarium, the Monitoring Equipment Was Hidden in the Furniture

                                                              Cloches by Andy Paiko

4.

She thinks she is hurt, assuming rebirth would happen. From the outside, leaves
Tie up the carbon, and the pre-blast remnants heap the crater sides as if everything
Were an excuse for feeding. One plant, say, Herb Paris, pushing through seems a girl
Again. Today has the appearance of a bust, with the bell's rimless approach no


Longer a miracle. Another sunny day last summer has only one full-time interpreter. Everything,
All your friends, are peers in oiled glazing. They have recently found their way to new shores
And outlaws have been transformed by their houses and associated studios.  But with no
Movement of the sea to smooth out the brain, as our country has been overwhelmed


By every possible difficulty, one looks to one's soul to be struck by coincidence. New shores
They are to us, the voyagers starting out. Facing a cartooned wall surrounded by grass or
A few trees, if only there were an image of you I could worship. A display of teeth overwhelmed
By our courteous ways. With everything I have done, even yet, the short jagged waves of sleep



Convey me where I hoped to reach, to the cloche violets only absences create. The grass
Dies off, and from there, we must walk. Of many doomed projects, answers harvest the tenderest
Of leaves so that it is possible, from the confines where she is crouching, fast asleep. All ardency's
Spent. Droughts of bitter tea are taken. As you fall asleep, my chair rears from climbing the  moss rick.