[to be read very quickly, as if almost out of breath]

Panic blossom speaks passwords into the edge of the voice at the edge of the speech that listens.
 
 
The password for membrane is not squirrels. It is also not squirrels of intestinal magic. It is not

squirrels that ride the antlers of your skin.



Every sink will be shallow and the deer with eight legs will run faster but on a treadmill of paper.

There is a password for the membrane. To get out is different from to get in.

The password is glass

The password is glass in a volcano
 
The password is clear glass

The glass is cloth

The glass is a cloth of waterfalls

The waterfalls are not the password

The password is not glass

Squirrels are not the password but they carry the keys. They carry the keys that wilt in the locks. They are leaf keys and they are not passwords.

A squirrel in our story has fallen into a pond.

The water and the squirrel fight their failing.

The water taps the lungs. The ghost leaves a lotus.



I didn’t know the password. The password was not squirrels.

There was a key but it was waterfalls.

Let’s talk about something else.



I barely knew them, but they kissed me everywhere, the squirrels.

It wracked my nerves but gave me purchase

for the password. Here and there a leaf fell down my shirt.

The leaves that cannot open things panic in the lock.

The hinge hears the blossom panic in the door.

That is the key.

The sinks are shallow so no one will drown.

The deer is catching up.

Its eight legs in the corner are listening to the edge. At the edge is a boy under glass

who looks through sheets of water.