#131

Fraenum Linguea. Ah, ah, open for the nonce. And the night wind, and the zephyr stole. Beleaguer. The book is books. What says him, Stephen to the Stevens that surround? You are you, say, now in France. You are young, say, coal and grille. Or the bedroom, say, where Keith did lay, and speak that day of Cory. Square, his real name Simon. And John, my trusting Peter. Je ne crois pas that tongues are cut by crosses. Or so Rebecca’s seen. In vespers, slits: one’s got it, got it good.

And careful, author, that you do not lose with all these tongue-tied phrases what it is you’re after by them. What it is you’re after for.