At the end of the day, before bedtime, a poet is simply a talented rearranger.
The end of the thought starts with, “to let me use the words of another.”
The bass voices sink the harmony; weighted and anchored anglers’ lines
Battened down with closed windows.
The marine layer of the Sound meeting wild, smokey arboreal particulate,
here in the convergence zone.
And, her windowsills have been sealed tight well-over eighty hours.
Yet, her eyes burn and itch anyways.
She figured past smoking would better serve her presently.
And, there remains the novel
And, sometimes, sleeping suspends;
so, she plays with shadows and lights,
(while her door hopefully bæres the passover mark)
Curtain ampersand Apperature.
Sans breezy volumes of infinite emptiness, posed.
Pretty Bird and his Lady Zen Archer.