impossibly is only a missed opportunity
in every situation lies at least an imp of ability
the smidgen of midget
then the rhythms of the thoughts ripping apart unity
of the images of sky with the sounds of tranquility
in every step toward the light there's a smell of ashes
whose grains are screaming out the story of their sorry
quietly
the rain will come behind the screamers with the lashes
to wash the growl from the voice to make it clean and boring
with waters drop will fall the tone of former particles of flame
to reach together fields of undisclosed designs of former futures
goes by
the song of clocks that sing the music of the steak that crane
a story of the calf and grass and roots and boots suture