See see it can be no me is free. Bound to one’s own plasticity, staring back to self eye like it’s the sea. No expanse can expand my myness in the sky my eye once holed. Glance shed gray across the day my stony being tries to be, the talk of the worldwide gallery!

Two hairs make one head, flourish side and front perspective gets so embed

dead when closed eye floats all stonelike into ill-defined hairplane. Bye bye.

A magnetic hold, that woman once wrote – and now she kisses herself unmasturbatorily: she is being portrayed. Ovarian sentimentality

Much like night getting a chance to breathe – purely sensual as an idea – yet sensual more like a hovering humidity, a mist not a meat.

Tonal detail turns flesh into mineral. Yet still the intimacy of a threat. Could say the second her giraffes its way into nasal fortitude – yet all stone is sculpture, whether made or found.