he begins to blow through it and it spins unlike a pinwheel but like a rumor everyone understands to be made of glass and so everyone mistakes this rumor for the maquette of the world round about. and flashes then like arms and legs become interesting flashes of insight written in pencil and feathered outward toward the maquette of a simple stage.
here in the still conjunctions we want and don't want there's a chance the broadcast voices down the hall are not talking about us. but a very small excerpt.
we are looking like. not like this in life the language everyone knows we are looking now. it's something else a little song.
If it contains a you it's most likely a fiction
like the trees and the rain dripping leaf to leaf
to earth or asphalt for puddling our nonsense into
concerns. Look the spiders are refreshing the sky
and I'm not nervous anymore but depositing a
reasonable sediment. As a kindness I suppose.
Now the untrampling I expected from a pretty good whack.
At the window composing my next I say 'wilderness'.
You have an eye could blink my disbelief all day.
Or had they wanted a new cult or had they bought it.
As finally the sky in the failure of (poverty) a person.