#28 (last legs)

BONGOS:


Under

Consider the way a floodlit lawn (or, as it is better known, the morning mirror) assembles the night against its own variety. The cells of mulberry gun into companies, the vacuoles of dark are bamboozled into an order. The initial focus was inward, a city at the end of a long railroad within you, but the light outside amassed a feeling. The leaper confesses an urt of blood at the edge of the river. Elm will undo the desire in the park where seeds have napped. You are dying to know where the light stops. Close your eyes.



BRASS: