A: The pussy willow grows
B: Its furry mantras.
A: Surf the scape of seas
B: And let them lift you.
A: A toast below olive paste
B: Turns at the touch. Your pants are flown
A: The raven. Spoken necrophilia
B: Never comes true.
A: Your onanism
B: Entices. Your sulky lettings
A: Mince. I hear your voice above the rust
B: Familiar is what you heard. You hear
A: Nothing. But I smell snails and books tripping
B: On crystallography. Pages, students, assistants,
A: Your face explicit.
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