Lingo as a last keen sanctuary for the purpose come to the circle
who saw philosophy and then turned back.
The coral and the woods, and the ankle blisters from biting,
were better, so we went. Then of course you think of his Fremantle
and the aeronautics stories, his confidence,
your pauper’s dreams of sailing, a generally spare
reference to an abstract agriculture.
Better the excitement became devotion in the Darling Ranges,
where you visited together and felt less, because
it was the first time for some and not for you, and not being
the first time for you a kind of conservation-seeming
became the incorporated hamlets of satellite vocations
to serve a Shiva committee ruling. Shiva says that
this many arms moving will not look like many arms moving
but instead like the pulse of a turbine. Ruling:
you are now the listless spinning of an introduced maple leaf.
Disinclined to speak during the visits they made
to parade the diet of the new committee, they kept rebuilding
that red brick church you admired for the squatters on its lawn
who hated it. The public phone nearby especially,
sometimes a family, sometimes a protest,
struck with lingo in parasite engraving making liquor pursed
in. Forgetting sovereign statues clung to by the random,
the certain took in careless sure steps,
and now that you are the clung-to, people assume
that they might qualify the grip, but it must cling onwards
because it is now the snorkel in odium and mercury.
You are now vitreous with the sandstorm, better aqueous
among those stalemated. This is because it can in portions
be the solar and the platelet, and the conspiracies are only fertile
with the metamorphic table of elements, like when
a city dilettante, once a rustic, now ancient but miniature tree,
says that with his acres of mucuous he is more concerned
that the sponge hasn’t been emptied.
You delete all lines that refer to a sponge as a person,
except this one, which is an undestined life boat
carried suddenly to the breach of earth. It never comes back,
thankfully. You have sent the question of a lifeboat forwards
and away to be again the livid humours of the one
who lies by the sponge, forgives but confirms that
the sponge hasn’t been emptied, and then go back towards
the richly tensile and stern corpus of a marinade transference.
It’s better to care that we are stories in transit to become transit
than to believe that the dairy industry has a civic terminus
in a taller food circuit.
Precious grin, intransitive art, we transfer
like a conference as conference furnace farms. It is better
to have seen sharply the goodness of recursion.
We are assassins surprising assassins, perfect with the pace.
1 May 2015