Poets

the word that does not come to pass - and yet, we do not go into the immanence of a big-bellied, dark, barely discernible life, self within self

small cohorts bear flags eagerly on through the days up the mountain riff-raff with the cloven hoof of avarice; while I wait for some

the shallow breathing of power: took the throat out of us (wheezing) on the pink painted planks (quality equipment: over. done with.) drove us into the open, circumnavigators we became servant masters, master servants. (standard lamp)