Hunger slices through the wheat fields of invisible tongues. Silence simmers the scales in the red sky. There is a womanly air about the way the flowering trees keep facing the eyes of desire. There is a circumference around a world that brings a tired man some symmetry. There is a wide-eyed sky above the maples to keep track of the sugary hills, where a child is not himself, unless he is reborn in the fallow light and allowed to complete the cycle of himself before he is told what he can or can't do on the street.
Time is thrown like a wax ball against the stings of yesterday.
When seen, the warblers are assumed to be speckled in so many apperceptive patterns. The mountain snow will fall up to my waist and I will paint its words on the ground until I can't see my bearings anymore. Sometimes white is the father surrendering his home. Sometimes white is the land words keep blindly following themselves in. Sometimes white is a disease no one can catch from someone else.