ACROSTICS
Sam White

Woodsy   

I suppose even in my derelict condition such

Leaves as these seem bright, social,
Overindulged to be
Vegetating in my milieu, my milieu which has
Eaten my face, my

Penis and
Loved me ahistorically. O how I'm stabbed to the ground –
A feather, a nation, a nation of leaves. But my milieu
Never weeps or halts
The eating of my face that my face surrounds.
Speaking. Again. Surprised.

Hybrid Car   

How in our heart soup we
yodeled a new one
beasting along in feathers and
rain. But rain of the oiled and oddly shaped feathers.
Inside we caroled the height of our numbers and then
did every one of their fuck samples stall. So they

Call another formula horse from her meadow
And comb out the meadow for horse formula plums.
Rouse from your corner yew horn dog electric!