Stop to consider the harmonics of a carpenter's song. But it's mandatory to include a consciousness of servitude to the old pages. Mother jangling the telephone, people come and go. Add fringes from the time you lived here for sharper focus. Body and soul congeal to circumstantial resolution.
Eyes run out of phase with the past, right here always present.
That I am adulterated in every poem, wish, moment, night sleeping with you. Put on as you go some pretensions to faith. These likely visitations from suave transcendent deities more human than Jesus illumine our foregrounds. I need this show of good will as laser printers dignify our seconds before form. My heart will bless these illusions.