Everyone at 360 degrees bent for reflex.
Diameter: 143.5 mm.
So this was why the rounder it gets, the more it
Morphed into a sleek of dark oceans
Like a perfect dose of buoyancy
Someone’s plotting circumference.
There we scout some vistas, clockwise
And in a graceful turn
Twice the stabilized
Of the same
Imagery of space and fluidity;
As long as it occupies
A horizon of focus
Easing off to the boundaries
Of prying into–
The Cluttered Neon
Dissecting a gaze
like something you found quite unexpectedly
in the puzzled
a heavy sky
of permanent orange
of spaces and time
the framed photograph
in depth and dimension
the dim in the wake
of keen observing
released with false brightness.
I will come again
to keep an eye
In this gap
The Birth of A Poem
The precise. Absurd. Strips itself anew
Without a word to say yet explaining
Where the opened mouth is about to devour
For what one finds directions: if x is without a clue
And y is sartorial neurosis mixing up real life
With fiction; you couldn’t even call it forest
But, perhaps, just another darkly secrets
Which are also emerging on the catch and crouched in wait
Walking up right to this, but what is it?
Exactly, the muttering at dusk with alternating turns
Became a hum on a gnarled globe like something
In the shock—
In shadows and crevices with no sense of dread,
Yet nothing took its place identical from the itch.
The birdsong now: utterly.
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