the lines are blurry, into a
galaxy, we seem so close to illusion. the mind as it shifts—aloft the tender
winds—so much given to images.
double stars—reaching into sky
measures, a dream inside of a dream.
moving into motion—memories magnified—souls
reborn. pantomime activity—sore into
its excellence—seated as it would in desperation.
much more prose as it becomes lime—upon
ice and symphonies. the drifting into woods, the longing sylvan, the mystery is
the thrill.
it was longer in trying when wheels
were square—before space was created.
so fair the atmosphere, so dear the
small poodle, so enchanted the meaningfulness. by an escape hatch, by drawers
with old mementos, by novella the small novel.
