R/ckets and S/ntries

several distances lay on the floor, the chirp of autumn over a ritual moon fence. my own humble swerve equals many paints in the process. I don't tire except to say there are name on the bridge. even seeing that Berryman took a caustic view, and waved, alas, before leaping. well, the aliens are in need, arriving by rocket in the nick of what they call time. we call it the stretched out effluvia of light, our purported friend. the web of indifference smooths over the finish in which we've discerned some spectacular arrangements. the next sentence, surely, will be a doozy.