LAMB'S EXIT

                                                                                 Ink blots finish phrases
         the pitch-black, star-studded ceiling designed instruments
a sinuous ridgeline five miles long juts out above a blacksmith in his world to a sandbar
  with the crescent's tips or cusps pointing inward invisible, curving from one magnetic citrus butter


              He is so good at killing rift valleys that bisect the country by gastric juices and gravel
                            scratched by landslides until his girlfriend cut him down
                         the integrated circuit's sound body overlooking various cardboard fig backgrounds
                               tests might require him who replaced him
                
                         Brow ridges and broken, battered skull scooped out among the rocks
                                                                                                                revealed in mosaic
                                                 the fragile and rotted bones of a ray of sun
                                                    rocks in the stomach flower for the dead            even the orca