by Ivars Balkits

Crossed

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What was antique I couldn't work out. Then the loom in heirloom loomed. Followed by a misreading of the bell sounds in the wrong position – peal was a plea instead. There was a dull blank moment. You stole my fur piece; why did you do it? Alibi was not an excuse. Solution was not the answer. It was rare for it to be so undercooked. To cleave meant to both separate and cling. Still does. Though it's bunk what they said about the bed; and the alien once familiar. You could measure a country by its ruler. How wan after it faded, the color of wax when it waned. Member again, one out of ten was of-ten enough for cloture.