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
reeling.
⊙
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
Virus
Innoculum.
⊙
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.
Avec ennui
possessed.
Pretty Bird and his Lady Zen Archer.
