A tree, spaced with winking, constitutes long mountain bound with radiant intention, like a boulder. Throng of mentioned boulders continues in bunting on a pole, stretches of rock strewn shoreline, lonely mountain. After ages of clear poems, the words were tired, tried. We winked in the beginning, with Saturday sunlight, a whiff of the sea. Sensual moment. The clouds were as heavy as figs, the streaming of desert down thru the ages. Then this desperate love of love, into the future, and we hold hands. This is a flow, with clouds that swell, with a crunch of sand, political intention in rock, a shoreline with comfort. The yachts are happy, a breeze surplice supplied, and a day is acquired. Acquired begs the day. The tree is filled with clusters of sunlight, flow of sensation, and the imprint of going on. Suddenly, this is present, like a poem. Now is known to happen.
poems, fireflies...