There was my search for lighter air,
I can't get off the ground.
So the geared clock it goes, it shakes it runs
Sweetness me, your holy father was a butcher's son,
White absence on the canvas of warm forest and rayleigh scattering.

It's never felt so long to Spring,
The tentacles of longing hold the weeks,
I am but the lemon, and the guardrail king.