sculptor, what are your hands for
and how have they washed? sanding
skeleton papers surround us as if
a fighter was overhead, or likely
the resurrection fomented come to
pass in the conception of a child
whose sharpening twist caduceuses
the immanence of high, alliterat-
ing, inevitable function: famili-
ar and gathering the scrape-along
subsistent fear overcome & trans-
muted into the cure the wound may
only be healed by the spear which
smote it, hills-into-pasture bold
books everywhere you look glowed;
some manner of archaeology is im-
plied in the dipped pen, reminder
to skip a step once in a while in
a cobbled, potholed crowd: that's
limned for theatre, lissomed that
traces self-sufficient beatitudes
coherently through the cables and
elevated trains of thought eugene
was the last man on the moon, yet
no one can admit any unease.. you
walked, today, too! singing swim-
ming songs, if only in forestall-
ing the slough of despond as well
as the brutalist future that even
now descends, but that child too.
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