felled by the hour smooth to its deleterious sense you try you bleed tarry
the powers that be come down hammer top of revenge reverberating through

So Jill sees the sense, buries the sense, trove of cents recovered by the hip plate of her love. A mouth
any lover knows its seeming is thus: a rain coat, a black jacket, tender morning hours, fetlock, hoof,
and winding coat.

if it murmurs it's because love's the goat . And several  others 
that reckon the need  ... not  a jailor's award nor the power that wishes it wasn't . yet chancres the ruins of young men, in the certainties of arrogating                 

Jill moves the tent
            rove  the bleeding ....