Urgent intentions will not be virtuous enough;
To mention, of the better, which path is it paved from?
Hell purges etchings of where your silhouette set drops.
Like Cloisonné flattened edgeways, beauty finds a brush.
You can do what's right as long as it can still be done,
But from where the comfort derives weighs more than the sun.
Strip your palms and find the bones, actions can't change the blood.
Rid the dawn of the fight you hope, where passions won;
Self-designation tropes mimic, even lack thereof.
We do all that we can do, but whose posture becomes
the fare, collateral damage we forget to fund?
Inwards piecing shape to form what cannot be undone,
whether from what you see or say, grievance follows us
Contort wilds towards tending the tame, normal but not;
We are not of what we are, but of what we become.
So however we see ourselves; Image falsely knots.
We can't know of tomorrow but that's where we are from.
You measure your body through a window. Once you fit, you
go outside of yourself, where the sky is missing.
Sit sideways looking over your shoulder.
A part of a person is stirring unmade coffee with a memory.
Another part stays by the windowpane
glancing edgeways into a cold tongue.
Yet another persona is playing with the squirrels.
The wind is in from lost town,
You find yourself observing the nerve endings of bare branches,
even the trees push their slow thoughts through you.
Shake mist out of slip-shod slippers,
then follow the claw marks
of small birds back into the room.
Today so far, is impassable,
wind-whales block most routes,
they are pushing drifts of insomnia ahead them.
The sunrise glimmers, shedding layers of frozen hide.
On the other side of a windowpane, watching
the light roll over rumpled blankets.
Dawn hovers between night and day,
it stays too long, while time and place
shuffle you like a pack of marked cards.
You roll over the edge of an eyelid, measuring your body
through a window.
Once you fit, you go outside of yourself
where the sky is rising.
A part of you is stirring coffee. Another part is beside the
windowpane
glancing edgeways into your tongue.
Crows crash out of bare branches. The wind is in
from lost town.
You find yourself observing the nerve endings of bare branches,
even though the trees you are watching
are made of blood-filled dendrites
pushing through thoughts.
Robins flush out snow drifts, leaping like tigers. You shake
mist out of your shoes, follow claw marks.
You can see clouds swimming in the dim fathoms,
where geese fish for meadow grass.
Roads are passable. Wind-whales plow through
narrowing perspectives,
pushing insomnia ahead
of a dark sleep.
Freezing rain wrings eyes into hands that hide inside
closed fists.
Because of the cold, there are warm regions of you
that will not surface today.
Dawn hovers in-between night and day.
For a long moment
gray ghosts pluck the ground like scavenging gulls.
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