Andrea Brady

For a tapering bravura and its co-symptom shyness
several noises feature: tossing, flicking, and cooling
in the barn-well and loft-wavelets until this wish
is filled outside the constant playback of the featured 
mind.  Compulsion to stringencies, work-outs that
unmask regret in shoulders, an overt studiousness
and resisting doziness inside certain sounds fake back
against the will to deny messy general degeneracy,
an overzealous mamba inside a shaky glass shack.
By the time of that soft voice-fraction we're nearly
breathless with feedback and awfully sweaty, hairy,
mighty and swinging preparedness.  Removal
comes among the tents majestically, casual in its
symptoms as deeds are cast sideways into divorcing groups:
frothing, maniacal, jogging, and sunken, hallowed, 
in plenty of meaning: neither banal they sandblast
outer boundaries of the imploding settlement
and drive well-wishers, with grapes, back into the forest.
I cannot subsist on this without you, rocks and their
spicant berries strewn between fawningly.  It signals
rough, intensive training, an absence of hesitancy
shines like water on the white frost pinnacles where blood
as achieved adventure hangs rabid, about to drop.  
Meads covered in white are fain
pregnant with care of our future. We fall about.
The masque of expected delights favors royally 
an extension of ambition into a catalog-quality summer.
Tonight, by pressing.  Driving late at night
the ramps look pretty, we camp under a deepened blue.
Your best qualities diffuse into a camphor light whose glow
narrates the fixities of this repeated, dependent, low-motion
dance, unrelieved except by their ambidextrous enactment
when you arrive, dying.  Then it can all.