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 Virtually opposite Of the same Imagery of space and fluidity; As long as it occupies A horizon of focus 360 degrees Point blank 12345 Easing off to the boundaries Of prying into–
The Cluttered Neon
Dissecting a gaze like something you found quite unexpectedly in the puzzled entrance towards a heavy sky of permanent orange of spaces and time the framed photograph that hanged in depth and dimension The wall that divides unfathomable windows the dim in the wake of keen observing released with false brightness. I will come again to keep an eye the copy of what I’m gonna capture In this gap that connects.
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.