prose is tense sense

an echo’s an open poem

we sort our rubbish into three bins

we sort out rubbish on an island’s edge

the sea lurches into rivulets

                                                    between rocks of prose; prose is a tense sense
these things happen more or less concurrently

though one is less inevitable, another is rubbish

a frequent sequence, a sporadic one

the movement becomes a distribution; an echo’s an open poem
echoes of polymer in carbon

one billion bands of polymer pushed into carbon

polymer waiting in bins, sticks of light exhaling

mind becomes an echo; the sea lurches into rivulets

                                                                                                between prose
the lamps scribble across a molten face

the rubbish floats beside the wharf

eaten of all body, the carbon cuddles its tense

these things happen more or less concurrently

                                                                                     and lurch into rivulets
though one is less inevitable, another is prose

the movement is distributed across three tenses

one billion bands of polymer pushed into sticks

sticks waiting to exhale on an island’s edge

                                                                              we lurch by lamps into rubbish  
: one billion bins in rivulets

                                                   between rocks
                                                   a frequent scene; the edges of carbon
                                                   sporadic tenses

                                                                               cuddled by poems