the blow ins are

exceptional, blows

about the statues,

eyelids agape to


diffuses the stealth

of cobwebs upon stiff

hedges, ramshackles

those considerable

tree hairdos

writes with litter

swirling their corpses

upend only to dive down,

to pause then are

somersaulting again

“have you always been

this dead?” asks the breeze,

i’m always prancing trying

to undo flowers from their

sexual prevalence

trying to annoy those

kept surfaces of water

into anger, undoing birds

from their balances, i’m

unexpected whilst you

are trying to incite circles

to expel straightness

to rid sameness

maelstrom muddle

an insert of gales

the confusion of

being so still, stood

if standing could be

achieved, atoms

refuse from such sleeps

don’t stir, don’t unstitch

pausing, sloth is rushed

at with hurry, rid me of

death’s slow appetite -

however watchful

there’s not sleep enough

to permafrost waking,

bodies are a struggle of

riotous roots compelled trying

unmask atrocious winter that

delves deeply and makes

morgues of us all so easily,

am built of tired yesterdays

and old fingerprints, don’t fade

let the tornado swell within the

heart’s stubborn terrain, blisses

sweep inland sweep into the

shell’s shudder

“complete me”

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