you fork the street into its composite directness and someone asks
that landed gentry question, like – you looking at my hair from where you are –
must look simply like a mountain gone | etna all up in here, and i | don’t mean
the insurance alarm claimsmen.
if i were to take the orange away from the sign, there would be no rhyme left
but that’s just simple math and it contains no lick of equations.
if i were to grant that the lines on the bottom of the Natchez might eternalize
the lost bones of Knight’s father and the way to drown a singing mangled
angel is with bootstraps and dark, then the radio would call its cousin
quick to come for it, stopped up with clotted rays and the jellyfish
simple in its forgiveness, in its permeation and lack of rigidity.
the rows of foreign objects before us can only afford, at best, their names
and oftener, soft, the other person’s call decides what will and what won’t
be stalled up in this world.