difficulties ascertain the tremor
of the displaced stone in the corner:

stones have truth, and life so much the not, like the lilt of mendaciloquence
dispersing in a dearth home—

everything else is rinsed,
assuaging the dermis that continually aches forever the thorn of a rose ripened,
  just as jazz is as always the music listened to by fellows hungry for Earth.
the wind blows spindrift past
our opened window when we slept next
to the churning sea. shadows renaming space: elegies of old metal rusting
seeking more than what silence provides.
roads confused to a kink. furniture kites along with it, a toppled light like sinking the fruit deep into the hands of a river.

  our flights become only so heavy
  when we become wary of the love we
  drag along. when we the small of our
  back and the bony protrusions of arched
  bodies become
            aware of the detritus. when blades
  of grass rear weight of the air bracing
  for the fall.
    
  our flights become only so heavy
   when we look back at our point
  of departures. our spanked curve
   of trajectories, permutations of
   open doors trying to do away
   syncopated tapestries anchoring
  our dripping bodies wet with what
  the snow has lent our
       numeral summers—

           forget.