These are No Moors

And he was liking his spirit as regretting
but not mindful of the reader any longer,
what could be done? We did our best
to remove might from the forest
where he had ridiculously lodged.

It was like an artist mirroring an artist,
a disaster! Then regretting his courage,
the animal mouth, we began to feel immune...

for hours the temple we stroked.

There's more...

It was a so clean brush every time after love
died. There was the the dog and the color red
and some pronouns. A sweater over everything
and coins, what choked you, a Tuesday strange
like somebody's once.

Any religion with a detailed sidecar
aroused our suspicions mightily.

Our mighty suspicions.