Spectacle of the Untitled

dreaming color onto gray dreaming with open eyes sometimes I think about nowhere, how I'll never see that same woman walk that particular way down that street donning those same shoes with that easy smile again slowly etching lines collect in turn their tears, as sodden woodwork of a loose-tied paddle boat catches rain grows weak but what a spectacle she is in the fog! light shifting by the hour, pooling round ever-drifting terrain tell us new tales that seem familiar (all is revisionary collage-work) laughter carries the growing light-weight of nothing as hours fold into years scramble your eggs savor the spectacle of the untitled unfolding (to out itself) by every method the disarrangement of your things (I'm thinking of socks painting floors but just the right dosage, how the sound of rain is glorious, soft moans that slip from your mouth when...)