The washer was working fine until it kicked off in the middle of a cycle.

I pulled my mouth away and a long silver string of sticky juice hung between my lips and his pisshole. I smeared it around my face, wondering if this would be my last taste of Bennett Young's love juice.

To emphasize this point, Blake actually buries the text underground, and worms, rather than plant tendrils, divide the stanzas. And at the base of the plate, in the underword that has been created through devotion to a specific idea of death, we see the coffin, covered with turf, and marked with criss-crossed briars.

… Yet let this make me as sorry as it will, still I must on that account above all see how everything looks before God and in itself, how it pleases or mispleases him.