Rhyming drone of
dance seizes morning or a time. Just about a town and the still grey
between words.
Winter nettles or
simple glitter of remembered snow on top of the arrogant head of the
specious leading figure who, even now, the space between us.
Racist intestinal
precinct determines serious claims against any sense of the blue
cradling over all. Sigh complete, fellwoing, in the practice after
dawn.
A pattern in space
until the words make sense. Brass makes music, strings make music,
whistling wood makes music. People can surmount the map of mistaking.
Comments