Wharf

1 November 2017

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

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