E R I C B A U S
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FOUR POEMS
A Scared Text
Omnivores cannot survive. Which bus takes us to the submerged city? A vital, comprehensive explanation is essential for fauna. The malady intelligentsia have risen once again. My hibernating video verisimilitude: A circular hill, the peregrine's nose, an ibis puncture. More lava in the old auditorium is a blessing, the men said, because graceful calcium flows through us all.
It rained flames. Nested qualms sun themselves, whose somnolent mates will never solarize. No one can treat the corrupt sister's core. In you, baroque valences convert. Stunted quills illuminate. Don latex, martyrs, the corporeal yes pleads. Quartz purrs.
To the sandy cave, men. The buzzing in your italics animates a quail. Home minus spirit. Erasers fail in various planes. The palace absorbs doctrine via sanctuary tomb. Its citizens merge amorphously. Lumens and animation. Does drama tame the face or is the forest sensing corpses? Whoever interrupts grace adds an animal to the fleet. The rest marry, praising reruns, bus fumes. Miss Minimum, an ex alto, delights our rusty ears with a solo, but the state requires a sextet for the committee of flame inquiry.
An alias for enemy. Memory means the man who precedes me. The video of phlebotomy contains one hymn and two rumors. I am suspicious of the sun. Were hints neglected? Act posthumous. Neglect supplies us with a process. It adds No's to the primal sum. Our vigil ends in um, an upset.
Sickness spreads among the models. Tantrums. Axe horror. Dessicated parties roam. Bats suspend, turn violet, and enlarge. On the meditation bus, senators remain invisible. Could aluminum darts dissect squids? Indignant, fuming, the audience grows ill. Secular liquids infuse our spit. What is nobler? The medical figment or a vestige of errant sequins.
Horse discipline occupies the anti-meridians. Avid spears in a void, a slate at recess, saline habits, rams. Verse deflects rats and mules in superstitious fables so precious, proper waters can enter the summit. One hundred lips hum with momentum, but when will the masked graves concur? Ink on the supreme participation tunic unearths a pelican trail. Clumped signs.
The animals in this village will have no dreams. A lasso prostration of the armada deduces none are more concrete than climate prophets. Only their formal digits may fumble the kiln's increased cavity for meals of gaudy deer. Curing non-beauty, the occupants' prayers present the name of the fortune umbrella. Torn monologues turn fluent beneath her litmus dress.
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