Lungs the rungs
Aesthelete,
Every ant antennae
To the same trade winds
Blackness, twilight, outer space
Cordially, the same face
We must address as Mister
Court or we may disgrace
This rattle box of hymns
In the child’s hand, GRINS
Sepulcher (ˈsepəlkər/) : an anodized note
Lungs hum the begins and ends