Increments Of Machines, Dereadable

one counted ten and died.

ten rushed

toward the sun and drowned.

the rest got annoyed

and went home. Madonna

was on in her piercing

drama. Donna

the song by Anka droned

on. That encounter went to bed

alone. Between those sheets

you want atonement? Asked

the old man. Something

that will give you room to end

with a suicide thesis

on your own

domesticity undone.

This is the age

of retirement schemes,

the sounds

of the closing of doors.

Surrounded by her children there

were none. And according

to the panda the canvas

went dry before

a sufficient number were born.

Whither thou goest

others may more briefly

belong. Or learn

additional numbers to see

thee interred under trees

of elegant bone

with the calcified

eyes to frame all

that thither that

makes this edit a scene.

This edit not seen.

This edit The End.

That one won’t count

ten again.