The losing party.

Who may I hear singing?

Though the tune gets so incautiously lost in dynamite explosions!

In peppermint; I taste it!

In breezes, in ease.  In thrift.

In curtains forlorn for those who might but haven't parted them.
Listen to the leisurely red crackling and then in laughing,

Re-cackling--

Listing, as the idylls
of vertigo
found in stacking
Things up to
achieve
the hilarity

of toppling.

The air upon them calms me, which is why I find myself
Asking.

A losing party cuts sentiment in final stone--not so much in conveyance as in tone
Neither theirs, nor their own,
While

From the dim lawn and hapless crickets
The rich fingers of a harp are most

Sweetly and hungrily heard chirping.

What I tell you is a secret.

How sincere are the gladdest fingertips!

Most refrain, 

--or never feather,

Or never are.

But pointing at the scribble tails of salamanders in the soil,

Or enlisted by the cupholds of (so much) music

The initiative to look weakens.

Take this glance of darkness:

It stretches past the orange morning

And the humor.

And the gallows of smoke that get produced:

And the purview of that smoke we inhale,

And the purview of secrecy.

The heritage of angels.

So what is it?

Is it the distress of form,
Or the dilution of color?

Is it less than the neat grass knots I tied and hair-parts which
Have gone through great lengths to be
Puzzled for, and looked upon?

I think it's a cloud of yarn.  I think it's an impressive cat--
And not human at all.

I mean, look, there are its teeth, and too, its sharp, peach-lidded eyes.

But what else.

Because something determinate must address our misfortunes with
The future.

OK.

Some of these hornets
Don't sting--prop bees.

They belong to the set
Of Nature.

And when swept up,
With trees and seas,

They'll go away.

Okay?

The birds squandered in flight.

If once a baby then always a baby--

---and to

anyone.

Go up womb.  Go up word.

Only smoke and birds in flight know more.
And you know, it's a potion
Of air.

No healing.  Not in my sky.

Marvel, sunny.

Marvel, sunny.

It is a bicuspid war, and a toes war,
Nothing less.
It is not here, however--not on this particular shore--

Has been declared with pawing paws,
Is in all
A virginity war.

Go between the letters, seas, the phone calls

And the utter lack of yesses.

Run, if you must:  For Shit's sake crawl!
Go to maybe, now, with eyelashes
To fend off the marvelous sunny tresses!

Every restless thing is a vessel, a home--

A fortress to patrol for a
Hat to fall.

The scurrying drops of blood in the wild.

TWINS (n.).  One was shrilly determined, while the other was buoyant--of possibility, and guessed at.  Can you tell which from which?  By the way each roams?  By the kinks specific to the hide, or the trail of scurrying drops of blood in the wild?  By the possibility that one may secretly be the other?

Imagine the wish of arms that surrounds you.

If it was both pathetic and marvelous
You'd dislike it,

You'd be uncertain about it--
Let a foot of snow fall on it,

Humble it,

Without skin.

Your fingers would ply absently in sting and misdials
East of your belly
And simple human truths would--without ceremony,

Gravitate to another.

Sheep drift peacefully across the field, and the yarn

Makes a pattern.

The walk is sacred.

If you came here hunting a dream,
Or a cosmic pale blue dot

You are lost.

The aegis of corruption
And

That of our satisfaction are identical in one stern
Regard:

They humble the sticky tarred stone for Good and Evil
As each travels
--and as each. is humblingly busy.