It can go no further with the void. It takes so
much effort to pinpoint one's concentration.
Details like howling wolves expect a doorframe.
And who is listening to the nerve ends?
How can you indicate a ladder in such a
heteroglossia of spangled contemporaries?
Leaving out whole syllables in lucent callow.
Sound is there to reword the pain, or void
the altercation of rewards. The countertop
of diction is poised to contradict.
Punkt. The punk lit down through light
to a more livid squeak of charcoal. The braincase's
bird in space is an egg.
A half moon or serrated eggshell whose points
stick in your neck like a ruffled collar.
Suddenly one is impatient enough to believe in the world.