Not the same, but are. But conclude a dazzle dance and
confront eager tropes. Encircle the caustic. This, lowered
down to the ground where our ancestors
lay themselves bare. Their essence among ragged shirts.
With the fear of bitter winds; look, look. In the way of
ourselves. In the way interrupted by signs and
sweet incantations.
What, to taste old smoke. Instead, however, tread lightly
because these are the days
of days, the days without
night, the days stacked too high for gravity to ignore.
Left, right. above. By default. How will base enjoyment be
reinterpreted. There, at midnight below the arbor
where time finds an impossible name.
