rapids

it wasn't so windy
that one could not crawl into the night.

i made it, again. to an entrance.

it didn't matter.

without a story, the night was so still
                       one could only hover.

it was a little breezy, but not too gusty

you see. a child's wharf
overlooked the least
                           impossible reflex,

upheaval.

taking steps by the scruff of their maps.

                       working time's play.

looking for word

reef aural

foaming docks and fog dogs
                  following men in mackinaws

there is no garbage, only

lone garbaged men.
chasing their knees/ in the doldrums

                   pickaxes don't help

unless yoowanna make the evening news

interrusting.

predictable only in rapidity of weirdness
         oscillating with cravings for moss.

especially sculpted moss,

made of less than cowardice, even
 for cowardice at least owns a name

pooling evaporations residue the cedar lenses

the sought is seen, blankly memorandizing

a compendium of nature

and lower endings wooden clog fires
noodles of lead

red birds in baskets drawn blades fulminations

ankle angles in english languish

trances to enter,

firstmost with not knowings.

salmon were strong from

leaping from couches
made of eternity's tackle.