The way a Thing Unravels is the Art of its brutal hum.
It demands a hurdy gurdy where a fife would do…
and all the mimzy of our virtues
at a glance.

It continues without stop charms and long are the hours
of our displaced events. the way you come apart too much
where the threads are apparently frayed but the sweater
is apparently snow.
Poetry Is This.

II

a sleeping vine goading pavilions
of absolute UnSleep.
a Narrow escape
where a Thought
is True.

A Me and You.
Doing the Nothing
That our Something
had removed.
on purpose.