the lonesome ringing
of cameos, and of being ajar,
these
recondite
balloonists
somehow
molecular. too near
to
compel the divine obsolete
or glass doubting its own skin, missing the
integral
in
which away's overflow consents
to this dirge of a vertigo-like inland, corpuscles
singing
to their roads keyless
adagios,
a morass
of dark parentheses.
a
story of divide
and its whereabouts
moves
toward the lighthouse in the frail fahrenheit,
complaining
for some author
in which to delve.
*****
to unravel,
otherwise for a theorem
to contrive, to sway, to be well-versed
until
the mob,
its "plural," browse into misdirection
within itself . . . and now it grows.
the
self, a simile
in a cage?
some catacombs where we play
and
love into
a seeming separate
homebase. gulfs of runes
engulf,
until we loosen
the volcanity of indefinite
words, furthermores
countermanding
these awful
simplicities
entering our eyes.
*****
who writes to disembark
for the instead-of rubble. an among thread
contracts the word
for a foreigner.
you make the contraband. you invent
to save the street
blown far to digress
into simpletons of spiked jugular,
tantamount to the oblique.
the I
misshapen
confers
an easy aim
for the future
unfurled
at the flood-mark of the regular.
*****
this birthplace.
scattering to winter it.
scattering to heft it.
sleepless as the bones
formed
of adieu and air. now the eye is foreign
now
the sea is hidden
and what is clairvoyant or misread
rekindles, for that which we forage
is the death of debris.