something again, something to upset you, and now hurl voice into other room, 		     -with my two fingers-


pull all the clothing over me, and not even the                                            flowers
                          in my throat can stop it. 

Just things, just things. To say it, Please forgive me. This is the time when the lumps come out 
push from within and break skin and bubble tent
my clothing,  how embarrassing,                          “Can’t explain the feeling.” Please accept.
Put more flowers in my throat.                 Start to sing.
The bedroom of my dreams is 

davisson_4.html