The weather is always the weather
behind my hand, air and song (wordless)
mulch, packet, leaf, highway, a tiny unknown bird
spring spring spring wishes biting
as a goodness of strains, as if I’d misplaced
questions I can barely answer.
The temperature 26.2 at peak.
But it’s all relative. What goes in the bag
is taken out of the bag.
Flocks of discrepancy are echoes
like consumers as there is
new spell there is dioxide, an apparatus
becoming livid early in the mosaic
and I’m living on the doll
(not even, in what wise does it goad.
But no ramble, no rally, no rain
here, here being stranger
doesn’t do it, ghosts craft me
copy chant clouds and lorikeets
and spades and sparrows.
Folly unclutters dream.
Learn a languish, the lists you don’t
stitch across. Why don’t you mooch
thieving poetry word and a word
and a word and a word
whither in the fabric
hurtle forth detail.
Destroyer! Destiny is becoming spurious
cracking wine. Let the quizzing stand
the tingle is part of the play.
It’s a long wheel, a long weight, a long
do on a nimbus, on a norm, on a nightlight.
Tomorrow brings tomorrow, soon.
(the above consisting of one line, or equivalent, from each posting I’ve made since the beginning of the project, and ending on the last line from the first post – the only changes are to some instances of punctuation and lineation.)