blued misty traces in our faces wide and sorry,the Clown’s antipodal merry break inside piercingsof a brain beside hearts naive, numbered to only two,timely, hardly real, a ticking rift in a watered-downage,
fission for the making through and silent, under all the graves, Her pines. i wonder if they see me on the street, their crooked digits dialing all the tens from nineacross the river when i sin-k.
incandesce me now, old self so young and worn atop a sever to be frowning.
“nix and twigs and rocks,”with posies they hum and sing,and jump each ship, then curseeach one who led demise and woesbetween each masque-clad smile, robotic applause shifty to a bow.
tell them god was dead the day he rested, spent his life thereafter then on spinning in sunny circles,burning like She didn’t really, only wandering, losing every friend,
a-like sworn genesis in bed with exit signs in red. there is a place where all is free, it isn’t me, it is in me.and we are some thing hurt.