Wednesday, November 7, 2018





language isn't this

as nervous then fail to notice shrinking
of sand in its tribulation to accumulate time
darkness around the swift of hair the swept
word a signal flashing in hidden decibels

last the inarticulate by you I have become
syntax of statues again becoming other than
ranunculus and butterfly thin streams of wind
will we too then pass through ears of sand

come back should you ever stair-top distance
and falling you detach shadow from frame
nor does anchored to clouds sleep resolve a

only to drown mirror face down in what were
dreamt or perhaps never been but in footnotes
none can read the remotely thumbed pages torn


Recombinant shuffle of lines from
Ivan Argüelles' Sonnets 1 - 8

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