Saturday, March 14, 2020


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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