in a gust of wind,
seventeen stories were told with a blustering talent
where whispers (purpled words from the land of vipers_
told rumors of the most specific things coming alive,
for instance, the tiniest of insects who were dragging
mammals from their graves,
or the formation of opaque galaxies, fed to hexagon-bellies
that we, as sorcerers could, perhaps,
hold between our blistered hands, where desired diamonds multiplied,
and a furthest beat in a stormheart of thunder bellowed
from the depths of a martian's thought
where little bumblebees
fluttered their archipelagoed glittering wings
into a quicksand of trainparts,
and blots of skin cancer
moved through hedges of boulders
to get to parisian hearts
in darknesses bound for precision-markings
on their foreheads
but yet, a still, faint familiarity!
scarred pools of blackened cauldronwaters,
some brisk memorial for a single fish-noire,
one dimly scattered Asian country, from forward flashing dreaming
to a waterfall edging on the horizoned babies' connection to the mystified whirlwinds of slumbered trigons
and furthest twisting of ropes into tireswings for sons of seven arks.
besides,
all is completely, unashamedly destined to arise as quixotic tracheas map out
air follicles and demeaning scratches on the ships lodged into clouds,
to stagger and become a solitary entity!
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