Logan Fry

Hair glade dewy flume took
me a deficit
pronouncing ‘things’ wrong not
on purpose but yearling water
trundles over the airy burly tufts

Frowns adorn green things so
what a deed intones
I’ve earned
such fads as heirs denote
but let cold lofts to dayshift hosts

Cured before, it ate at her no less
for all its dallies,
sore if good a moodlight took on
pewter flakes
upon her tub, the daily facedness of lust

Uncall me then if foils
thrust yet shim a donut, nothing
touched, I’ve read of halos
that sit on the dead who weren’t
if but for the hover but tour alone

The eaten bitemark, those slakes
have rotten life in them
I ate
a half a dome
but I could not find the foam I kneed in