Pale straight from cave
wheezing out his chances
by the bus
the creak of his spine as wind
blow ancient and angular
sprawling as calves
twitch and direct
reach for air
wipe the muck from your eyes
stumble some sense of
direction stumble ‘til ya stand
and get back to it ‘cause who the hell wants to
stand never, still
snow and sleet encumber mind
even by palms
the air is dead she whispers
the grey antlers of the earth
moan and rumble dry rememberance
I too will pray
for our numb roots
give a sensation of floating
flutter the tattered flight of leaves
and crack to the halting
reality cold steel and decomp-
ression valves
The hose releases them each in stream
drop and shape
all the constellations
in the moment you were dry
in the moment you were dry
so vibrant, and wheel rotation
retreat so slow
back to his dusty corner
back to his dusty corner
of dancing smoke the ashen
past thwarts action -- reaction
chains pulled tight to trace
all the constellations
in the moment they left the floodgates
(without the burden of deadlines)
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