There is an inch of sleight in this house – this cold chair, a burst of cologne clogging a 20 minute stride. The stringent air tonight blusters deeper than gashing sheens.
The little dryad of dew outside and the cadenza of frogs after lambaste of rain. Whenever you sing, your voice communes an immense pain, something unconscious of its gravity, something that levitates back to momentary ululations
swelling in the grime of times and heady chances. A long stretch of a day submerged in silence resembling a howl underwater.
There will be many sorrows and they will take form of doves, assume the skin of the populace. They will come in a volume of names pressing the linoleumed musk the way the body turns maneuvering over the saltine, the mattress, juxtaposed to a lover,
a brusque aroma of coffee brushing away the calm demeanor of the morning, dragging along the weight of its lassitude towards the sprays of fern opening a dense ornate of forget,
you, in all places that pulse without recall – an obtuse fish feeling its life in a surge of blue, overtime, finally knowing what it means *to sing and drone only words.