area of a circle jack martin Bodies sag to the point where faith usurps tissue; unrecognizable tissue intorts possibility at the point where, where else we can go? How many directions exist? Here are three:    Give me thank you belly time.    Round onion hope.    Hypo-mitochondriac love sneeze. How else can longing be translated?    The scythe of the question mark.    Hips of the umbilical cord.    Memory bread game. One road extends    from the hole of each pajama leg.    Needle bones. French horn. Calypso geography. I’ve been trying not to think of the Grand Canyon as genitalia. I’ve been thinking of planets who exist as misspellings only.