The first one sung in the dictionary some two hundred years now like some forest connected to August bicycles, a repertoire of din-less shifts, yet more like waves than slapping air towards tomorrow to March with a pellucid spot at an un-lit coffee shop conveying elusive metallic through copper throats saying: “You’re not crying but more like molting, in a sparkle motion”, immunizing the crests of believe and the forming of language.
You seem to coruscate and dull again, such as poems do, always coordinating hopeful, lest littering haplessly perchance
just a little.
Lanceolate wings escape uselessly like a bird staring in a mirror, or feet on the ground, razing yourself in overflows and under-knows molding and clinging to
the breath under our blankets.