There is a paper that wants to cover memory as if it was a building.
No, it is more like a mountain. No, it is less than a mountain.
It is only a string. It is a string always winding.
It wanders toward desks that are not anymore in a building
where blotters have been left to fade but for some reason didn't.
My identity is stretched between wisdom and a warning.
The distance to the coast is an eyelash pulled into my vision.
The personified road keeps crawling, relieving my fears.
I stretch the dotted line around my waist.
I confess the acceleration of my speech.
The multitask listeners are no longer patient.
They suggest we use fewer words.
They suggest we write the horizon into our pauses.
Twist into place a gathering of complexity reversed.
Fool the sharp corners out of edifices.
Bring them to a felicity of curves.
Grant me the second wind of pattern recognition.
The hapless couple, knowledge and terror, has grown
too separate to be apart.
We trust that our folly has subjugated the earth.
We flash by backyards of factories while praying to paperless altars.
The internalization of a suburb yields the realization
that you are low on gas.
The castle is concealed in conductors convened at a station.
Green highway of easy previews, we need the rain.
It is only the wolves who consume. We are taught proper hunger.
It is only the mechanics who understand. We are sent roses.
They manufacture paradise where there is fruit.
The title stares at me.
I pop the tape in and groove.
The last river pilot on the Amazon collects no more dues.
An angel saves his imagination.
An ounce of sunrise is in his shopping cart.
He fulfills the last orders with visions of Zion and peace trains.
Penmanship is the requirement to gain admission to the fort.
Remove the dashboard from the car. Dress the bus in fables.
Arrive at the moral by evening.
Sleep in the shade of a snake's last breath.
Awake in the pasture of a cow's only bluebell.
The blackbirds barely move crossing the curtain of the road.
The grasshopper puts on sunglasses and understands the fable.
He darkens the dream where there is a cloud.
He muddies the definition when it gets too thin.
I am poor and dreamy, weak and resilient.
No more than a pup moves through this paradise.
We bend ribbons only the willow would know.