Mad Walls We'd So Carefully Mapped Precisely as if Asking for Change

 

Some cold night! Wow! 

and us, first on the watery realm—

rich ashwood 'gainst a current as

we battle on boards shaved from 

mad walls we'd so carefully mapped

precisely, as if asking for change. Listen

to the rush of the coming scenery

mist, instantly a mysterious atmosphere —

I told him so, but mister

the ruckus was his vintage ride— we rise

"from here on up the skies taste just like hope"

most strictly just ether of course but copious

the flow, blasting, man

life —what reckless throttling isthmus or else what holy 

bounce our role-models flushed down to the feels

— blows from a horn

standing next to the amp of pure darkness deafening

the test of the affected knick-knack inaction.

Like light-headed ghosts, career-sitting as we say, 

weighted by a meteoric scale —

sightless— imagine maneuvering woe with caution 

like anchorites in a pool of mornings

what they'd give to know courage fused to completion.

Don't rush pal the deal is ready. Bright hope is astringent

You caught me perusing clothes to vacation 

to a landscape's shaved neck —where breathes the young child

cobwebbed by dawn, "but it's desire" she said.

—the vast chasm a gate exemplifying tensions 

mere steps from the limits of space

a scene, terrifying— it isn't exactly across we go

but to the present— mouths repaired full up with ephemeral 

old truth, my daughter, touching my hand

with all the right words, on all-fours 

come on with

she says 

not 

done 

not 

yet.