A love language of sighs.

Marginalia scrawled like—

Or of whispers, too.

Vines that.

Rhymes that.

Gesture toward what?

A rush of air that sates silence after which the bus passes.

Strangle the signs.

They overcome the text, which gasps.

It sparkles, it gleams.

Is it ecstatic? Suffocating.

Empty as the.

Empty with the.

Isn’t it dreamy?

Sounds that slip by.

That remain.

That linger and lusciously.

That resound.

The exhilarating ecstasy of cries and howls and yelps.

And laughs.

Poetry like raindrops.

Our flagrance.

Plummet, plink, like,

Gather and drop.

Re: sound.

From the noise of the crowd you can discern:

…yes, yes, yeah, yes! yep…

A date, a name, a place, a reckoning.

Who am I to say?

“I loved you well in the Scallops Hotel”

The polysemy of polyphony.

Things that fall out of books.

Sonny’s Blues.

Free: Association.

Dead letters.

Good grief.

Grow sure.

All the infinite ways to avoid saying goodbye.

Cracks in concrete are closer to God’s language than Shakespeare, for instance.

And faces, what do they say?

They reach out of themselves.

Like your reflection doesn’t just look back at you.

Like it sees you becoming it so seeing yourself.

Like the poetry of the wind through the trees is to forget what we put there.

Like Langston didn’t edit.

Train your heart (scratched out) head.

Your head (scratched out) heart.

So you say.

On every corner a prophet.

Mangled signs:

Mass Age.

We(t) Pain(t).

Cats that meow back.

Godard’s title sequences.

A raven pecking into pummeled flesh.

Black Orpheus.

The Rubaiyat.

And why did you choose Schopenhauer when all along you’ve been closer to Spinoza?

Wilt or sink.

Or floating

Or fleeing.

Or fleeting.

Or:

Of whispers, too.

Chiasm and chiaroscuro.

Desiring.

Needing.

Something.

Since suffering you pinpoint as accumulated silences,

Who can purge my heart?

“The music
from the trumpet at his lips
Is honey.”

budding ornithologists are weary of tired analogies by milo

A love language of sighs.

Marginalia scrawled like—

Or of whispers, too.

Vines that.

Rhymes that.

Gesture toward what?

A rush of air that sates silence after which the bus passes.

Strangle the signs.

They overcome the text, which gasps.

It sparkles, it gleams.

Is it ecstatic? Suffocating.

Empty as the.

Empty with the.

Isn’t it dreamy?

Sounds that slip by.

That remain.

That linger and lusciously.

That resound.

The exhilarating ecstasy of cries and howls and yelps.

And laughs.

Poetry like raindrops.

Our flagrance.

Plummet, plink, like,

Gather and drop.

Re: sound.

From the noise of the crowd you can discern:

…yes, yes, yeah, yes! yep…

A date, a name, a place, a reckoning.

Who am I to say?

“I loved you well in the Scallops Hotel”

The polysemy of polyphony.

Things that fall out of books.

Sonny’s Blues.

Free: Association.

Dead letters.

Good grief.

Grow sure.

All the infinite ways to avoid saying goodbye.

Cracks in concrete are closer to God’s language than Shakespeare, for instance.

And faces, what do they say?

They reach out of themselves.

Like your reflection doesn’t just look back at you.

Like it sees you becoming it so seeing yourself.

Like the poetry of the wind through the trees is to forget what we put there.

Like Langston didn’t edit.

Train your heart (scratched out) head.

Your head (scratched out) heart.

So you say.

On every corner a prophet.

Mangled signs:

Mass Age.

We(t) Pain(t).

Cats that meow back.

Godard’s title sequences.

A raven pecking into pummeled flesh.

Black Orpheus.

The Rubaiyat.

And why did you choose Schopenhauer when all along you’ve been closer to Spinoza?

Wilt or sink.

Or floating

Or fleeing.

Or fleeting.

Or:

Of whispers, too.

Chiasm and chiaroscuro.

Desiring.

Needing.

Something.

Since suffering you pinpoint as accumulated silences,

Who can purge my heart?

“The music
from the trumpet at his lips
Is honey.”

budding ornithologists are weary of tired analogies by milo