imagine wind wound on tubes of words, which then what? your own weather came daily, over an ocean noun, smacking season mountain, till it is when you make a word to read: each word, one at a time, invented by your work. then imagine, clearly invested, optimal as bright, the specific beaming of winter sun morn, that much red in fiddles of explosion, tho you doubt that poetry just as you exclaim. settle for the spark that set the trees, then slip away. settle, too, for an undertone, the word as grey as dear waiting. or the black that is convinced, even night on the border of more night, useless examination of physical matter. a word stuns the once, then stuns again. doubt is a courage. sentences are found in our days, frequent, willed, and vetted. then a crimson of dawn smokes thru the goggle of staring, you are reminded. do you get sick of stating the facts? a poem is no relay, it stays inside the bounds of words, except for bringing stirred up to the round up. Wyatt Earp, we are reminded, with brothers, rustled up the Clanton gang, gun flesh. improbable monstrance begs you to differ. crazy gunplay applied to real whirled words.