upon mornings of degradation pulled from the writ or cast off and spit on through a canopy’s drift, it is a day to remember; a breath through the wind which culls no beginners like bags full of spin. it is a remark growing lonely as a heart beating to win or lungs captured and thinned out. and so we exhale smoke or carbon dioxide whose atoms take heed of the warmth of the trees. we exist and we exist but not to be existing; no, to be cautious in our attire and warranting truth to be lain forth. i cannot stand to speak of more but i can sit or sleep and snore and be out with it. but it takes something else to be found in the night; to be praying for what’s right with the tides. so do be slinking past the notion it is but a weak-hearted’s plite with the moon. for though we do only what we can, we can do more to be doing than to be waiting and waiting for a casualty. it is not that which pulls and tugs but that which embraces. and though these mornings aren’t wasted, they should be.
a needle fits the groove and so we dance.