Feb 3

there is GRASS on the PAMPA and there is OIL in the CRANKCASE. Our CAT purrs under her FUR as if the CALENDAR would NEVER cease. I have ACCESS to the PERSONAL, it is the AIR I TAKE, through WHICH my two ARMS WAVE. Farther AWAY, FACES, armies of WORDS, DIM fact and fancy. Bacon, an OLD june, MEMORY DISQUALIFIES itself. Though it may EMERGE as a DROP of longing on my TONGUE. From this LIVING AXIS, I am ABLE to SPEAK without DYING.