metonymy4u

Angels tended by professors in large books
bound to calculations, corsets and calendars spent on
control – these the rambling
divisions whose very
end is night,

when words enter your unguarded ear. Come
with me and leave guesswork behind.
I told you already to approach

intensity from the lee side, redraw the map,
jump your chance to be a seller in the market.
Or climb a slide and leave

your karyotype behind.

Where is the midsummer moon tonight? Is it one under which
pressed lips might together sing about? Mountains might be won?
No matter how busy I get,

or clever I become, I must learn that the essence of practice
turns on a key of continuous narrative, a question mark riven right
between the sea and the questioniers,
forgotten by the sand they walked on,
moved by the tears they dried.

How everyone should change their name once slowly
and fall in love before they die.