the bonds of likely regression

strike up their matches

and judge my area code.

but i’m right there,

the bigger stone

and spreading out.

 

no, wait. still beholden to accuracy:

i ain't even 2 pebbles on a crutch,

blown through a nickel birdcage.

 

your upcycled glances in the cut.

you witness my vault

festooned with useless decadence.

 

the traits of night, famous in death,

rumble the knights' sabers. what’s really out there in the darkness? streaked peaks and dips: the architecture of a crumpled wrapper.

 

when i visit the beverage,

partial to disturbance,

partly i observe this.

i then bereft of all creation mists,

imperfectly blazing trails,

and pending a keepsake of pre-history.

 

the luck of order,

a whomsoever problem.

you luscious eyewitness.

sicced lament on the hobknobs,

came correct, and muffled their sex whistles.