early on
trained first
in skipping
in even spaces
I but one
between you
as not and/or to be
the idea of
hands dropping into flatness
as true salt
not
one grain
from the sea
would the floor too without sincerity of the rocks?
my allude
my properly small ritual
because it calls
my page
my mind
to the never so trying
from where it raced
crippled
asked sentences
nodded go
a rose developed
uneasy
is
the hand
that holds
the lens
in an agreed upon land
upon intersecting
to vanish
a lauded attempt
if falling is the end
that said by said by arc
all the better of it
find blind trust mark
but about reason?
country
the begin pure scene
all the cans
in a bottle
all the narrowed
roses in poems
unified by
the sure intention
enough of
authored rightness
enough of
stickiness
understand
where a feeling is a question
understand
how it is we dress ourselves
understand
what we await
may not await us
understand
the last time
anyone saw
Jesus Christ
he was floating away
up our fall
that landscape is a fire read
a weather but as feelings part
an often crazy ever each
where each can be an utterance
reversing the apple
must all matter
cohere
even somehow
liminal daughter
don’t write in from reason
and of sailing
know that it exists
somewhere
every morning
surrounded by ice
dropped dead fast fading just long to show
the author fell cold
his book bereft
and old on old
and what was left
but things
these things
behind a door
we’re asked
we’re tasked
to find a place for
the certain suspects sort
I exist like
the face that
more begins its bends
obsessive of unrest
until the sickness
ends
was the formula prosaic non-cognition?
Too much no is failing
to much yes –
a worn out sing.
What can be special, ever-
lasting,
and not be anything?
believing an abandon
listen water
draw pieces
bend all AM sky
as a star’s fashion
know the fragments denuded
a what may exile flatness
a true friend or poems language
you ensue
all I am and ripples light(‘s)
out of ideas
in voices
slip
by reason
of the details
and of
last pieces
and if around sounding is this want,
the first middle arch, do stare
on that overlooked green and the shaded soils
that give response across voices fair
me?
Know simple form called truly me.
I am in prattle and inability,
the vanished hunt, the suppose I’d be,
the now settled watch of much calamity.
So less is the better of worse worry.
So, less is the better than being we.
