a house with a cap for a roof looks appealingbecause winter is no good for VARBthere are soups and pots but mostly orangemy job was to fill them all upthe dream was about something valuablesomething i’ve opted to call VARBunclear of what VARB containsI think of VARB as not just a thoughtbut that which holds the thoughtloving is a VARB that we know wellI drink it boldly and without reprievelike soup the VARB will come to meand fill my holes with happinessin my dream the branches rise abovewhat I can and can not seethere is a new type of VARBand people tasked with wearing itit lays across their faceand tweaks when the moment callsthey learn to turn it on and offuntil they become inseparablealways there are things to showsome different way to mark the pagecoagulating until new mass formsI saw not individual VARBsbut only their collective onedecidedly more heroic than mouthsthey resembled a longgone moonmy mother came to help me onceshe said “why, this morning is some word…some word I knew at an earlier time”so I tried to help her find that wordit couldn’t come and wouldn’t comewe held up one so woeful shape