[neither Buds. A Crostic Axe] Poem by Aaron Eliad

Neither buds. A crostic axe
nor celibate savvy
knows paper chirps
daddy of song that you sing brachial
seats on the top of it's rock
altimeter
tin can
lungs half empty, grown sailing
hot jogging trade wind
memory lines of twenty and six
milk stenograph
rug beating rhythm and blues ethic
tension made tenser
huckleberry slice of lime
scissor river
has only itself to rise. The

coma of purple home brother,
has no time to test
the shirt beating aeroplane
killing empty along sister
dying and never dying nor
loving and never loving;
I heard him digging all his life.