the blade & its etch

In the repose dances distance
wary of the

flick of the pencilburn, wary
too of armor

the blade and the stencil patched
with arbor and

the smell of corporeality – burnt
avidness about
the small bit, the heavy bold auxiliary, the riot that spells rain – we call the blades by their name we slip on the timetables of a timeless parrot we give a little twist to the auxiliaries of emancipation and the rain spells riot, the names call out their blades, the bit is small in a parroted way: actual about auxiliary
when the etch of a glass eye torments
shade when

the bulge of the rootness in your binge

you tear the pulmonary rasp you sting
as if your

ear your inner ear hurts by the sound
of reason &

you wait delicately carrying the burden
of treason
This rut through which the green
passes, this

ponderance, often, etched, extempore –
we tend to

break often in estimation, the kinds
of wordplay

rendered are probabilistic, multi-
The large exuberance has tooth
In its stead; for ever the
Blade stunned with smear, with
Blade stunned with smear, the
Reason why everyone turns red

The large exuberance has brought
Sun, dew, twine, and the blood
Of christ where it was needed
Most, where it was needed most,
In the tunnel, in the window of

This harsh wool; the large exuberance
has blue in its eye; for ever the
Mother will stoke lucid care, stoke
Lucid care, stumble where it may, in
Void, rubble, the blare of heaven.

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