hangs on the wall, snow. a tidal wave,

pages of a blank          text hide the machine.

a dancing projector, hydrated lung foam. the sea

imposing fragments, dredged your still life.

the bowl of vertical feeling, move from one deep vein.

have washed up. so, we are here. what They can, would forever

pin themselves down. come and sit for awhile, ceiling mounted apparition.

up in suburban rigid geometry, pure gold on the surface, things from the star.

 

name swells rise to the surface.

these shapes both the flow of themselves,

promise, century a crowbar to undermine,

whether whether, by thousands,

forward in support, pestiferous questions, hesitant concerns,

but There will always turn, break open.