Wednesday, October 14, 2009

Mona wouldn't know





Jill hears it . The hears what? Does she call, the name

of the forest. Does it rob her pronouns perforce
of their strength and do the rivers bend their
tumbling seeds backwards on her behalf, this lefting
wing that strides its polars, rides its negative wings,
rushes the worries, hurries the hundred and one, the reason her temple is sound.



This way she knows the back porch is secure fastened with the bolting and leather bound booking, well , in this way her suzerainty is buttressed.
Its evident to her, in any case, her
face's come full circle.
She's an evidence lawyer to the very end, and issuing forth from the molecule's concatenated web her airs are stone sunned

.

Not a simple molecule, but a complex
rarity touched by the bottom of the wind, the wind hangs upside down its ringing belt calling her name.
And repetition is her game.

Mona coughs the killing call, representing anything and all things forking off the main road, and its lifted spoon makes the difference that is shining, glittering, mooning. Lest we seem patent in our renewal ( a pageantry of the missive, a whirl of the event), or petty in pleasant pending we'll seal the case with jewels and fox fur.



Love is this way, it always takes the box closest at hand.