the struggle to be real and not merely adaptive*
suffers utterly.
— Meredith Quartermain, Matter
something abt the river
you are tide, where
you are sleep into the bodys beach
risky, & more hopeful
on her bruised cheek where indirect
rivers lead to smaller rooms
the red lines get the girls
a stone upon your hollow
*
sweeps, into the slip of water
a realistic now, & then
arranged into a velvet spire
the worth of noise a fingernail
draining dows swamp into lake
an ecology of beer & irish
strata of pure produce
an observation figures on a ledge
*
an engineering feat, of tall & thin
blur the hands that feed
intention like a halter
I see three animals in turn, a clot
the list of species fall
go down again; that stone, that path
what feeds jaw dropping mouth
a total sum of relation, unearthed
*
or during what, combines
endures against the width, a question
I cant say I love you
a bag of useless flesh; erasure
from one of the outside
erodes a path of progress, stress
or grouped in whereabouts, in turn
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