Slipping its height as per the aspirin of
your fullest sleep, the perennial spine.

O the angels of arrant tempo fold graves
for the brandishing, under the gravity

misnaming looks--as well as avid and filled
to print away honey on what abandoned.

What is bought when the wing is handed
over to georgics, less the cortex that rides

roughshod over heather, money down at the docks
heaving its shadows more or less openly

patrolling the outer limits of inspection
reverent as decoys?  To magnify the vessel while it

splits into almond blossoms, a stupid statesman;
and visibly shaken, and note how others are

the first to throw chairs around the room
countenanced by history's phototropisms

fielding October, with possible annexation of the grocery stores,
brandy bottles floating to their ultimate lays.

The East Village Poetry Web
Charles North