it
starts as art chasing, mellow moons, agriculture inside. tomatoes are plush,
robust, ripe with juice. the lettuce is lime-green. the fruits meld to anxieties.
I soon turn over an old leaf. scheduled for a meeting, moving through scenery, I
arrive a little late. never a good fit, a royal enchanting, while most expect a
little courtesy. the woodlands seem open. I see trees, spaces, acorns, chipmunks.
it must be better, the sun is reneging, the mobility is increasing. I need to
see, in another dimension, despite, the agitation. I know for powerful,
elegant, born through the loins of gods. it becomes another lever, the open bible,
surprised at what many adhere to; something is scheduled, right in our yards,
many will miss it. I remember to first hear, or see, or chance, in art; things
will at once change, many will be aware, this is why many love their city—to roam
caves, to play guitar, to dance upon social winglets. to wimble messages—by the
undamaged flights, assigned soreness made sweet candy. much must be ignored to
usher in art—much must be restitched to exit many souls—alongside magnolias,
soil, reaching. invisible merits, enduring with time, flooded with events
another has embarked upon: galloping from land to land, writing the first book,
wrestling with a lion, or sensuous exchange.
