Birthday: Iteration Two.


I don’t suffer from avian influenza.
In a grave of what it should be,
surprised at that window up,
it gives a shock.

We went over defense before the details
to expect that I close your belt
with a buckle, not your chair.

Inhumation, so that you deduct
who were privatized by the women
who most break from the inceptions

for position improvement of oneself–
still more–bury a body in a subway.

From in front of the first century, a pin
from the top that pants downward
in the same way when intended

so that there is more, and probably there is,
so that the latest lady’s man-pin
raises it, or seven Indonesians.

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