Epoch 64.24, Loss 1.1434, Dropout 0.25, 512/16[6,7,8,9], Keys
A bunch of scissors that are on a table, a drink of pink coffee, a dozen of them through the dark, and the paper will be a great deal of starvation.
In the morning light I was here to tell the child he was born.
I looked up at the city down the driveway and the small fire started
staring up at me, and the woman stood a long time ago, and the sound of the panels of the latest green corner of the world with the sound of a strange star.
A bunch of scissors that are on a table, a dog on the right side of the lake.
Look: the one who was so happy at the moment he would have seen him he saw the rest of the church and the truck he felt as if he were being mistaken for him and he was the little one. The beast was too hard to be consumed without seeing, that he was a lonely song. He was a long sleep on the particular boy who didn’t want to go to the door, and then he saw the blood of a sort of peeling head in his thighs.
A bunch of scissors that are on a table, a dog on the right side of the highway, the six feet in the hall.
Part Two Poems
I have been driving the ladies of some old man
and have a home on the radio,
and one of the few stories about his house is
already in the shopping bags,
and the good luck may be the worst
and the dancing and the lovely stillness
of the dark roads.
I can see the flowers die
and I have my sad prisoner on the radio
and I am with them as I can see it all,
and I have the place a few minutes ago.
A bunch of scissors that are on a table, a dog on the right side of the highway, the six feet have been coming into the newspaper, and the children are still in the soup line, and the words do not pass through the earth. Yet the sun is filled with stars, the light of the rocks, the insects, the heather will be a smell of the market light on the sidewalk. The stones have taken their silver gaze from the hills to the east to a soft floor, and where many walls are sparkled in the rain.