Simple Theories

 Port city   Bay coastline   67   views of a   blackbird   on security   cam “Why should not we have a poetry and philosophy of insight and not of tradition, and a religion by revelation to us, and not the history of theirs?” Nature Ralph Waldo Emerson

  Just some gravid green in space between. Moss brings plenty. A typical species can be seen above. Like you,  Sphagnum can be commercially harvested as peat. And in the end, period. A Coltrane of excitement decides just edges of the spreading mat. Thus mapped, you may feel equipped. Moss offers a simple breath, with imagined outskirts. Dashing forever just gives your name away. Resident moss expounds nothing beyond the very tract. You get used to knowing this.

  Umbrella of escutcheons pleads yellow, is it safe. Is the big, soft sun purposeful and craning in the justice. The docents always appear scrambled, light plays off. They travel the bunny routes while fox sniffs softly. You may be safe. Igloos may frighten you but so do trees. A rapture of sunlight thru trees appears over there. Language filters thru. The regional child still needs. Yellow goes aloof and impossible. You were so potato but you need no excuse. Yellow spans language then tipples. Make a move towards anything. Excuse every rock and startle. Swallow Rimbaud’s birthstone word by word and exactly. Begin tremendous again.

  The purpose of inventory, nothing can be so green, the flaps of purpose enfold, the world Seen as scallion chopped finely, ex Pressionless, scrubbing adjectives from eyesight as a package, Doubter.