The poem in town rewrote the nation. Its hammock, that we stretch into fully possible to the quake of our powerful national glare, provides us with the integrity to wreck the week. Factions steep in dignity until favouring the more developed of ploughs. This plough, bless it, stays in front, showing so much verve in the roadways that animals were to use. Now various and timely, we've matched excess with excess. The coast of our popularity will not broach reproach. We remain with sticky questions, such as: Will the skies ever fall completely or can we trust their distance? Yawn if you will, years are stern nowadays, no matter what experts might say.
More than ever, tho, words need proof. Don't they carry the wind toward the ocean, the smell of groceries in settled neighbourhoods, strange foreign music here and there? Sure, gorgeously. We are complete if not diffident within the perimetre of these effects. We make magnets of our positions. Repulse or compel, it doesn't matter, so long as we keep the electric pulse driven.
Meanwhile, the poem in this town rewrote a nation. People were graduated for some gift, leafy walls of ivy that strangle stressed pigeons. Ah pigeons, handy as glass.
More poems, fashioned in the town, state national pride, dogma for Iraq, curious canker sores for the month of words. Some weirdo mocking Starbucks with a guitar and promo will melt oily residue into his career and our sidewalk. Beautiful, a froth of wonder. Whatever we talk about now must go to heaven pronto. It's a fine spring day.
