the seats filled with chlorophyll, the nights with wey
no one knew what they were doing
the apples mixed with the pears, tortoise with the hare
all the buttons were missing, nothing was sewn up
sometimes the words run out of juice
it's like that with wandering
stew and walrus root, crab and pie
do the Dungeness dance, but hold it down
it's not always this way
farms add color and fly
night clothes in winter dressing
filled with papyrus wings
folding origami
the arms solid the night fall
the room is there, yet empty
the toes are missing as the light shivers
a hole that reads and discovers
it's not always a genuine place, but a place for rest
the toes reach out to touch me
I'm in another
everything has been said before, but that's alright
an arrogance of pieces
wordfully wrong and wordlessly right
sliding uniqueness into this whispery world.
denis streeter 6/25/18
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