Hanging

  

 

 

 

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.