with the humility of a fern deer I will tear out the rain cloud by
teasing out one drop after the other.
whose night-breath is upon us now that the chilllwinds have
silenced the boorish remnants of a dusty year?
oft-longed-for-silence is rummaged about in lustful-annoyance
-that-yearns-for-somewhat-more as it is bound homeward.
Armchair rests on its laurels, its foundation laid in fifteen
examples of chair-some-ness, and the lonesome hollow
that exudes the void that makes the armchair an empty
blob of nothing but solid spaces morphed into air, that
factoid needs to be taken to task, argued for and against
for to not do so would be to rest content in philosophizing
and that has been done, done, done.
This thought out assemblage, of words, of words, of
the structure that is hinted by the words, and the flow
that is bought with pain, bought with pain, and it sows
seeds of discord, a hundred crows screaming out
to make a point, a noisy point that somehow morning is
not all about the flow, the rhythm; so listen to the cacop-
-hones driving their noisy point home without words; no
words needed when attention is distraught, shattered.