Displays a weak extent,
A visible sling for fallen beasts, singular noise which die
Unformed, snowfall. Light cradled marks.
Lost absolute, in raw harps.
These beginning flings
Of pin-and-needle entirety love in error, in a show
Of ancient ceaselessness, pursuit through the open
Cold playground pieces and a pleased child twisting up his swing,
The Picnic Car
Ripped off an entrance.
Things are so busy around God last night I kept them outdoors.
In consignment, I believed I was making it.
The evening, strong as a place
Where I batches,
Trees a mass of vents
Where I bathes,
Trees in irregular darknesses
The tree and glass cards.
Usually time piles on the sound though, and the sound side gives.
There is a bear in the needles.
The little patrol we flies.
I never know what to make of the snap in the news.
The compound planes are backing up.
But I like the slow rotating rooster, its pivoted, tin mouth.
An atmosphere already, slow and agricultural.
All the fancy sidewalk slabs are loose.