Moon. Tide. Puppet.

Pulp-puppet tied to such a shore as if it was/as if it wasn't me, or according to something giant as the bloom'sbeam becomes to utter its only lines in tongues/ to the atlas/ do the brackets indicate people getting along, or people so similar they are at war along the lines of assimilation, chanting I'll win the way I've always done, by being gone when they come

I think it means some limbs made sunstark in the sand (a flag up, a hand you clutched in the dark) on the basis of the strings pulling them from unreplacement. Not that they were buried there. (Fixed. Fix me.) That they were there. That to be barely there worked better, like the red segment of any night. Where the freight of bimbos and overt thinking mingles in those dances done between prayers to ibis--Flipping through an atlas you notice the black bodies. Looking at it meticulously, you notice no one. Flipping through it again, you grow an ego. That causes you abandonment. The word we all duck with lies and husbands until, flipping through it again, you aren't its rival, it has no use for you. People stay as close as they go and the only distance showing flips through me in a tunnel the shape of remembering forward is like a spell without the effort or satire, or like us before the atlas and before ibis and it's all alright