mopkins

 Let no body, as it presses onto a screen  as if from behind, be mistaken for the tiny light  its pixels might remind.  (We do not mistake the illustrious outshine  of all the stars by sun for the whole of the illusory day  for their absence.) If it anguishes, or writhes in pain,  Let it languish, until you feel it's beating vein and wait in hopes something from the other side draw back its hand  swallow its pride and strongly say, not her, and not I. 

what folk songs would angels sing?  round campfires with ashes which put- put out in sky without oxygen,  and without enough breath to sing.  So it's visual, the song,  the brown birds flocking down into it, a reflection on the river.  All musicians are agnostic and requesting   the same thing Two Black dogs are running the park into night time  one street lamp is howling back keeping warm the street for promised comer-byers   though still untouched struck by the grateful bell ringing  this world, this world, this world.  Your orchestra, is  what-air exists between the wool texture and ear the reminder of life which briskness brings is not in it's stinging kiss,  but your survival of it. 

 time bent over backwards  always forgets herself  at a 90-degree-angle, she is worried of doing what's good over what's right,  time touches her toes, and pulls them up from where they should be rooted in the earth dust, on the seeking plain,  a mound of earth, creeping like a floorboard,  dust, making time dark,  floorboards, making time straight,  she is pushing up, breaking as she tries to bend over backwards