a lone something in the sky flies near, just by mischance dazed by the smog, bowing and diving downward into the parting, cracking, quaking bellowing of tar from the firy, sputtering lungs of these alps eons worth of cries released in mere mouth-ajar gasps of the earth diverging and converging into the debt of always running clean, running me always downward, as in the deep deep tessellations of rock I become.
too still for my own good, I guess – another voice on the ash-flow tuffs of breath to fill the mosaic of sinewy stripe-patterned goodbye and bygone plating into the deep, deep, deeper caverns of the unseen sea slipping off the mantle, an accident with intention, as an echo caving downward into
nothing,
nothing,
more
nothing
polluting the depths from the palisades, scripture rupturing lowshore into surrounding tissues like igneous stone dreams of clinks ringing, of noise a voice on the ash-flow tuffs in the always running-clean water the purity of which I intercept, the clear-ness of it; a sinners window.
through what's left, I see the clam another mouth for and of the sea unseen, the pearl as unsoiled as ever