Heartbeats nor breathing repair this rift that tumult has torn between two rights that are both wrong. Struggle nor simmer brings any glimmer of release. The breath continues, but the blood grows thicker. The dove hasn't moved, nor has the window's cardinal of glass perceived this breathless snow, so light as to be nearly finite. As flies skim the pond my eyes can't seem to follow the words in this book.
Early smoke rises out of old chimneys at dawn, dark on dark in rows.
A blue silk pillow makes sitting upon hard earth something like pleasure. Drawn by one blossom , this bee hovers and circles in fragrant delay. Flashing Christmas lights entrance three speechless patients slouched in parked wheelchairs. Deep within each pulse. Icicle drippings , slower under western blush, hint frozen silence.