Able
spoke of screams or little itty-bitty dungeons at trials for Cane is violent.
Ruminating suffering where coughing hurts, trickles hit cotton—the blood of the
carcass oozes. Able sought clearness, or lakeside comfort, seeing shadows with
horns upon knives. Too much to reason to tactile to slew where Able would never
slaughter man. By a gate next to a rock aside a well—a delicate penchant a
passion as lowly too holy for more was left—a heart accordion a breathing loss
too much to face; Abel ran, he kept running, it’s been ten days and ten nights,
just running.
if
met it would un-rule as so close to rules at brink or cave seated with one
book. a man reading legacies or after mercenaries so decent or cursed such
varying deaths. a tattered, tethered soul, or badgered by buildings where
sunrise is blockage. too swept to defend too humble to war, we indict his
father. tender sweet devastation, to have sat at his body, to have slapped
Cane.
by
essence we never speak, by indelible problems, where it doesn’t mean much to
crayon walls. by reservoir internal conduit so splayed so sincere skies look so
nearby. looking at fibers too fallen to awaken at sudden an entrance; several
creeks fire across both lakes a soul made of water: emerald lions, rhinestone
seraphs, trumpets, horns, a swollen zephyr.
