this of there must make awake a way

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

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
asked sentences
nodded go

a rose developed
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?

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

where a feeling is a question

how it is we dress ourselves

what we await
may not await us

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
even somehow

liminal daughter
don’t write in from reason

and of sailing
know that it exists
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

was the formula prosaic non-cognition?

Too much no is failing
to much yes –
a worn out sing.
What can be special, ever-
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
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


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.

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