notice the convulsed orange inch of moon perching on this silver minute of evening.
We’ll choose the way to the forest—no offense to you,white town whose spires softly dare. Will take the houseless wisping rune of road lazily carved on sharpening air.
Fields lying miraculous in violent silence
fill with microscopic whithering …(that’s the Black People, chérie, who live under stones.) Don’t be afraid
and we will pass the simple ugliness of exact tombs,where a large road crosses and all the people are minutely dead.
