fake page, I can't hold you, hole you for warmth, for the jungle of sweet I want to inure in you, for the trial and missive, for the way we want connection, I want to anthropomorphize you, Americanize you and misspell your weight, want the ae combinations of Latin and Greek to course through your words, I want there to be more wanting, to be need in a simple way; the trial lawyer said he didn't want to be in the prose poem, that he preferred preserves of plum and apricot and boisonberry to the tart receptacle of this word container, this fake page that blooms like a white lily and someone once told me that creating a white computer page was a feat, was difficult, and now I can download you something fierce, I can transcribe the trial lawyer against his will the way I want to control this world, the pen is a sinking cursor, your face is the avatar I wished upon, the gargle of paper is down on this duvet and sinking, the ground is sinking in swoon, soaring whimpers, groom the basket, tell the fishermen to take in their nets they're sinking, pressure is sinking, weight is down, the bucket of grooming material was left with the village stags, that ball you were chasing has hunted itself down, I can't hold you enough, you print your blanknesses on me, I fill myself with them, the feathers are rotten and whole, tiny bones, Latin bones, urns of olive juice, grape wine distilled and fermenting, veins rolling, to be need in a simple way; the trial lawyers said now that we are here we want supplication, we want bread and vomitoriums, we want someone other than us to be rug-burned, we want transcription, we want silver pens and philosophies, we want unique characters, we want traits, we want our hair in bright silver equinoxes, we want blotters, we want desire to be a theme of not only this but every poem, we want geese, the pin is a sunk brine, open the gut it is a container as well as are atoms and frills, look deeper you'll see shells and manicured pigs, I see your wire disposition cutting a rug up for its texture, the colour sung already under your eyes, you spat on the trial lawyer, singularizing him, making him crawl, I want to do that already, to sink with my wings in the sea.