Distant sound of pounding trash can drum circle.
Exploding bottles.
Later in the cab she said: See, I can talk to you.
Strange familiar wild stoop drifter.
Fuel the ritual park fire.
Dialing the soaked shoe line.
Opening the numbered letter.
Catapult uptown echoes off chapter street.
Looking glass gleam.
Yellow night light sheen.
Wood from the needled forest.
Paint from the wet wrinkled dimension.
It sewed into the morning.
It wove its weaving through the pouring
shattering threads of yarn into rice sized knots.
Gone are the low hanging clouds.
Gone are the cartoon trees and the nooks of rope that submerge the dirt filled box.
The par boiled conductor dismantles perspective.
Medieval constrictions.
Hearing instructions in droplets of syrupy rain.
The sand in the poppy.
The eye in the onslaught.
The finger in the mitten.
The fat in the mutton.
The knuckle in the window.
The twist in the thread.
The flight in the sliding.
The falling of seeding.
The seeding of sorrow.
The end of sadness.
The alchemy of clarity.
The secrecy of sorcery.
The hollow in the grape.
The amulet asking.
Oak smoke.
The commutation after lunar prayer dawdled in delirious delusion its comedy of frailty.
Time for reconciliation was over locked hands across a table.
Questions bounce off cavernous walls.
Only in retreat was the presence felt.
Its voice wavered out of focus in unseen channel.
It moved the way beyond its own circumference after miles under capsule.
In rows of one the aroma of curtains.
A card overturned when stones were gambled.
Beats cropped into offered articles and curds with pepped up crumb nubs in coat button hearts and sea songs that go on without repeating.
A power reappears to a forgotten spirit with its foot in the pipeline.
No simple rhyme or cataclysmic séance could bare the lofty presence and incandescence of the return.
