While I was still holding a stomach ,the hail banged right on the plastic roof its luminous pearls lost to posterity.Grandsons have them on tongues.

Stories shall be told on deathbed.Our extended tongues tasted none of the icicles except as they are projected to future grandsons in time’s vague womb.

Do not hold a stomach for thunder .That is when a hail falls on a plastic.Stories do not make perfect storm.Hold a tongue up to sky to catch it.


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