Windows rise to scatter dead skin--

an electric cool removes layers of

mustiness.

Pitting rooms against themselves,

held accountable for their confines.

As inner eye contact is maintained,

the respect winter taught--so far

afield that flowers happen.

Almost like Mary showing--hands on

her back.

Just as a sparrow lie leaf-like between

two pages of air, illustrating itself in

someone's gut.

Where silence loses its sound to

light--light is never unseen.

Nothing is unseen.

Ever have the feeling you can't

get naked enough?

Even though you've never been

naked.

Even glory bears degrees of welcome--

not every wake is left indefinitely.

Try as it may, the ocean cannot

disinherit waves that fail to further

its glory.

Ones own face is too many lives in,

not to appear guilt-ridden.

Mistaken identity is a guarantee--

historicity recycles attributes.

On the otherside of things, one has

enough personal relations to populate

the globe.

Which's why roosters can't unhear

dawns like rehashed blood in tepid

water.

The fog was a cheek to cheek slow dance--

in step with the promise that no one

knows anyone.

It derived intimacy through lifting from

what it was never in place to reveal--

but like plight.

Having been as close as it'll ever be, there

is nothing that doesn't hold back as it

strives for the opposite.

Who's lingering on what it drew in?

So close that it's gone.

Summon-mad incense goes out searching

for a transcendent nervous system,

taking on different qualities.

A serpent lies coiled under a Golden

Helmet, that's made of depthless return.

Sleep is different, it is no longer where

waking comes from.

Waking is different, it is no longer where

sleep comes from.

Light lays down rising.

Sometimes eyes open up there, & a

depthless return shows one the figure

of its speech.

It is not the body.

Post meridem traffic, tightened

congestion--breaks whined like

dogs sounding high pitch

frequencies.

A screen protector discarded on

tousled grass--unevaporated dew

droplets set as Wallpaper.

A fitting tension, sort of like

car pooling.

Sunsets are eminently confronting,

they're second to last page epics that ask:

'Were you a part of what went down?'

As entropic & inertial forces hash out the

unlived, concurrent with an insatiability

that pleads passion.

Trusting that your passion's retreating

with those pastels--that you could &

would die, but not just yet.

It's like the psychiatric intake of a patient

that's kept from creating, their ******

need the same as sunset's cry wolf

apocalypse.

It's like fighting to stay awake for

something indispensable to your being,

that whatever's underneath sunset must

match up.

Otherwise it'll feel like glimpsing

sleep-prompts while wearing synthetic

skin.

It is only surface succor--one should spit

out the passifier & eat grass!