The sour propositions flick call the pope of envy. The rauls edge to horizons made of muddy pants. We were young in the clutch, the dinging crown blow full of effort, It’s all a wonder, tuck in the cambric. We live in that standing loss of wind and wild, given the stirrup redolence, caught in praxis. It begins again, only in words, because only words strike only anything. The sentence is a test, a phrase is a second, only a portion of the anything. And you are. You are the time and it is now. You are the phrase that fills, and sentence told to all. You cannot stop a flower, gone is gone. The poem only grows in the words hanging hanging. What time is love? What time is our holding? You are the only only only. Word.