Thrice in my veins ice froze to the lanes, blocking my heart's desire. Flow is the aorta's purpose, a proposal that liquid should remain liquid in the face of every lipid bite. Stent me, I'm stopped. Crops clop clop, in horse bowels. Don't trowel around with me, I'm shoveled, stalled, and barn-door shut-up. Each minute risks brisk breath, a smoke dream built from alveoli and whatever happened to burn. That's a lake of a different order, an enormity of eponymous proportions. That is why our discourse must remain untitled, there can be no recourse to nomenclature, or else our legibility will admit our awful, purple fragility. That's a red and a blue thing, a pawn and a pawn thing. There cannot be sameness when sides persist. Now the fire in my arteries frogs out of proportion to the pond, this little muck tub. Bathe with your mouth closed here, I have already become more giardia than person. It's a human strategy, to blame little things when the big thing is less than bouncy enough to find the sky again. Motives sink teeth, while demands break treatises. Nearby music floods the tone and again, bones narrow to fit the muscles they bear.