Quarrels I brought to authorities for which I was fish-bowled, such as when on a calculated whim I gave a vow, a pledge
of one thousand collard green symptoms pratting particular a peculiar persuader, outstretched paw netting loudly,
preaching television sainthood out of the fish’s mouth.
The bum prophet, returned his mistress much more than killing her son for a sign the ages had dealt in blow of scripture, and despite hospital rules, Ludwig never forgot me, either. Under the sun nothing knew less than that camera I took on sound advice lathering lazy misquotationals without proper clue.
BEFORE THE MOVE
This growl the fatherland we first stalked, this scowl the mother lode we first imagined…solid day duties hurried past spotted nights. We did not invent this theme.
Film at eleven. And six. Ancient mutterings are slow to neutralize.
Hearing the herd, my dear, splashing past muddled urges. But death in sacred surges singing its skilled and perfect pitch the cold seize of an extinct sturgeon’s Adriatic strain spoiling the forgotten flesh inked in drama, this drama of Bolington’s stream.
My mind’s eye growing, growing, gone…The poet choked. The painting dried.
Against the gray ash folded hills the Virginia sky grew black, there is nothing that lived that night that caught so much as a breath of cool slack.
We reconcile the concept of withering time racing faster in toil than we ever swore it to be, against the yellow years of a faster tomorrow no relic found can improve lost liberty.