She hated to be cold or wet.

You are fucking life:
the mean was inadequate.
Signs point to the station,
where she held a party
before her decomposition,

her nose was a slope.
Her eyes were mookaite.
She budgeted her weeks,
but you took decades.

Your hands were tight
and ready. You remember
the first orgasm is better
than the third. She spoke
to your mother. Numbers
begin with the waist. She
was a list. Her daughter
is a rodent. You add them,
let them soak up the river,

calculate the remainder:
her teeth were slightly yellow,
she slept on her side.