Lucid practicality: the left side of the road, ” This tree is marked for removal.” A node Rising in my throat. A vapid sentinel, too old To shade sulky creatures, to breathe out oxygen? ” Sale on, virgin Brazilian hair.” Soft curls, indelible ochre.
A dugout for your skull, one with a cost label. Why always aberrantly clean aureoles? The highly praised priggish, the plump morality Filled underneath the surplice.
Flounder between them, carry cubes of frost, Don’t get their lunatic fever.
Raw and ripe, futile and prolific.
An imbalance of beginning, of end.
Between now and then
Resides only an inoffensive pus
Of experience, tiredness and decay. I will cease my knack of prophesying the dusk If we are, if I trust, if you stay.