that our forest is inseverable, fabric and boring   Autumn arms threadbare clothing eager to be cut with scissors modeled by a swan   her job prospects are booming, humanity is cosmetic, mascara will not cling to feathers   she is an artist in the gravest sense: velvet roundtrips over the cemetery gate sans filigree   commonly known as: without decorum   a yearling in my own practices, an apple head of blood shivers from my thumb, my needle, I was only trying out embroidery on myself, fingers a lace web pattern   and when I don’t feel confident in every scrap of work, I produce worthless, leafy doodads   our coin jars repurposed from espresso tins insufficient our rent goes down and I’m fine, hungover in the garden patch.… Read More “WHEN I FIND OUT WHAT THAT MEANS, I’LL LET YOU KNOW by W. C. Perry”