Ancestral Call )

Return, at the nape, all indiscretions

I've want of less pulp, And so a poem

Is naked And stands before the man clutching her insides out.

And the man is a grasp of unscrupulous flesh

And the man

Is not a bird by any stretch of the imagination is not

So uncommon inside her, is not

Or what it was an absentee space

The monstrous growth of dark