Something spreading underground won't speak to us under skin won't declare itself not all life-forms want dialogue with the machine-gods in their dramanbspnbspnbspnbsphogging down the deep bushnbspnbspnbspnbspclear-cutting refugees from ancient or transient villages into our opportunistic fervornbspnbspnbspnbspto search nbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspcrazily for a hostnbspnbspnbspnbspa lifeboat
Suddenly instead of art we're eyeing organisms traced and stained on cathedral transparencies cruel bluesnbspnbspnbspnbspembroidered purplesnbspnbspnbspnbspsuccinct yellows a beautiful tumor
I guess you're not alonenbspnbspnbspnbspI fear you're alone There's, of course, poetry: awful bridge rising over naked air:nbspnbspnbspnbspI first took it as just a continuation of the road: "a masterpiece of engineering praised, etc."nbspnbspnbspnbspthen on the radio: "incline too steep for ease of, etc." Drove it nonetheless because I had to this being hownbspnbspnbspnbspSo this is how I find you:nbspnbspnbspnbspalive and more
As if (how many conditionals must we suffer?) I'm driving to your side an intimate collusion packed in the trunk my bag of foils for fencing with pain glasses of varying spectrum for sun or fog or sun-struck nbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbsprain or bitterest night my sack of hidden poetries, old glue shredding from their spines
my time exposure of the Leonids nbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspover Joshua Tree
As if we're going to win thisnbspnbspnbspnbspO because
If you have a sister I am not she nor your mother nor you my daughter nor are we lovers or any kind of couple nbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspexcept in the intensive care nbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspof poetry and death's master plannbspnbspnbspnbsparchitecture-in-progress draft elevations of a black-and-white mosaic dome the master left on your doorstep with a white card in black calligraphy: nbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspMake what you will of this nbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspAs if leaving purple roses
If (how many conditionals must we suffer?) I tell you a letter from the master is lying on my own doorstep glued there with leaves and rain and I haven't bent to it yet nbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspif I tell you I surmise nbspnbspnbspnbsphe writes differently to me:
nbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspDo as you will, you have had your life nbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspmany have not
signing it in his olden script:
nbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspMeister aus Deutschland
In coldest Europenbspnbspnbspnbspend of that war frozen domesnbspnbspnbspnbspiron railings frozennbspnbspnbspnbspstoves lit in the nbspnbspnbspnbspstreets memory banks of cold
the Nike of Samothrace on a staircasenbspnbspnbspnbspwings in blazing backdraftnbspnbspnbspnbspsaid to me :: to everyone she met nbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspDisplaced, amputatednbspnbspnbspnbspnever discount me
Victory nbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspindented in disasternbspnbspnbspnbspstriding nbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspat the head of stairs
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