measure is that which follows attempt, & an ear is needed to measure it.  we crack that rain in a boundless metrical whisper.  the wrapped flow starts where fewer whisper of renaissance.  most every release outside of the body cracks reason:  it opens, unhorsing forces that impel the poet, the reader alike.  renaissance is more in the outcome than in the attempt to shout of where it is.  the last unhorsing of lust is the word, & therein all are circular.  

more thumping thwacking follows starts.  it is wrapped as poetry, thumping, & wrapped in what is known & what is not known.  the flow in screaming measures trees’ vibrato.  the sidewalk of the reader is outside measure, & we find it thus, ovular & in gluttony—total kilimanjaro.

more coma, then:  here’s a lust for infinity, an infinite windshield—find yourself in that, masses.  it’s self-evident—it’s below, it’s possible rain, resistance.  this glue is distant despite that throat’s word:  gluttony—total it up & we all have the same possible light.  the cadence is longer but the same cymbal limns vibrato here, & nature is the ear in which infinity whispers.  the throat is forced open in multiple waves.  

the longer the nature, the more we empty it out, the worms reason.  & eyes, surely, are universal, lips, circular, open to that which is already heard screaming.  we let light that is opulent be, & it is.  it forces, forces cracks.  weakness comes to the aid of the opulent & the increased field, reasoning every lesser piece to be a longer coil, & the bodies carefully, carefully stacked.  if we are stars in rows then all is released, opened to below, & the same into hours transubstantiated.

poet, your eyes are not in the tree.  remnants impel the plotted, deliberate, self-evident arm.

reader, take at least the eye, & what is here arbitrarily, not as renaissance.  amidst the open slide we are w/out arms, cut & covetous of the metrical outcome.

reader, beyond this secret hollow, take what the poet amasses to the sidewalk, the edges open to every twenty-four-hour pattern.

he is not a poet that cannot from outside the human return & twist & force the cut to prevail beyond the cadence of pistols’ ventriloquism.

we take the words we find in a thin, circular compass, lapping eyes before reason.  what we measure is more than what we hold.  what we cannot measure is boundless.Top of FormBottom of Form