Instead, the usual hyperventilation, are
we consumed by fractures,
time and time, time to serve dinner under the
stars?
If, then. Said to wear porous knots and wrestle with the
sea. How to find. How to wish.
How dead souls fly
from stories of unbuckled life. In the abbot’s hall, mark
off days with a red quill. And where are the holy riders who
carry saddlebags
filled with wind? The sound of their
tinny voices, the shrugged off aphorisms.
Look beyond, or aside. Tomorrow is made lawless
and left in a ditch. Picked clean by
wingless birds, in spite.
