Something changed, the referee of title. Gorgeous
space-time ozone fooled region clog. A tool
reneged on towers. Later broken church doors
were sediment-related golfing partners. We struck gold,
under the minute left behind. Honest bouncing
sounds slopped further cues. A rustle of
press down, then the give in take. When the door came after,
licking the steam between zero and mood, we started a rock.
The rock backed the aimless ombudsman and bad taste
along the present road. A scour for tours read
clearly. Nose for news slid under the doormat,
only to crow later. And of all these buds, the
true language frantic for gulf, we smiled.
