the river does not settle, nor does it dribble enough color at night to want to forget what it was that spoke the syllable of lost nows (or lost agains); the river does not settle, nor does it make it any easier for the bard to forego the loss of spilled ink; maggots eat leftover adverbs for a late-ish supper, and there is a clip-clop of yonder lads clamoring to get ahead, but where exactly?
The parsing of lush adverbial oppositions
in the context of a red aftermath of post
-yesterdays and pre-tomorrows: that is the
conjunctive relief, the prepositional trophy,
the limiting of an untapped vowel slipping
off the coast of half-blitzed sploshes
of remembrances and recalcitrances, sobered
up aftermaths of a washed out couthness.