Patient, Better Driver
From diluvial binary code extracted
from white walls lined
the untouchable monastery, the fraction leaked, drifted like
a molted feather
one part
the great machine
one part
flying machine
one part
dove
one part
down to a soil so rich
with language
even heavy reeds challenged words of illiterate change,
an incomplete. But
for how many buttons extracted canary-round’s thread?
Only a father
best known for knowing best in his
walk-away-way delivery could know.
Then there was sky. Clouds rained.
In mud seed took root.
¾ of a weed
grew to knee-high on a grasshopper whispering razz
to filtered soon, and looked:
to the east
there was dark.
to the west
there was late.
Now here is something.
And so it thinks it better to wait for quarter moon.
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