Into the soil climbs the sky
Enshrouded in the dirt
What came before with ideas born
Of everything it heard

Alien forests rich in matter
Proliferate oolong the clouds,
Do they know their knowledge latter
Often knocks them down

Knocks down the progress of the spine
Protruding from the one
Who, rich in age, shot first and left
To glow a pretty howish town

In Brooklyn, they make you turn off your power at 2am each night but only in the spring. Rats are busy doing shit under the streets to make three flowers grow

Flowering creeper on the hillside, cow skulls in the trees, and clouds who use the hillside to reflect the sun... a backwards pathway.

These are all the signs of spring.

No evocative posts at dusk, only long, native thoughts that pull the clouds into tomorrow.

The moon climbs a crooked path and employs a pool boy to record everything he sees.

The ways of Universe unfold just like the mind of a child—slow, crude, gentle, yet deep and often undemonstrable, only observable as they break upon the shore of adulthood.

Degrees of winter are most obvious beneath the passing of certain clouds, bright ones, short lived ones.

How many staff has he climbed to get from heaven all the way here...

It floats through the air in shapes that mock the phases of the moon. Shapes that beckon the zoom inside of me, darkly, until all the kids I've known are lined up, with necks of glass.

Never is here, dripping from the side of the titanic, a witch born from the cross between the wind and the wire.