we follow the path into the forest.
the branches spread and weave like a government slogan.
we fought the mark and bought the bile
while wild flowers grew and swept the way, by the way, along the wayside and fell.
we all fall.
it is the fixed point in history.
god is change.
a great beauty and all that.
at the end of the day
in line with the face of life
from a table or the table in the middle of eighteen gray houses
we rose in accordance
developing before becoming laws of the state
heads to hold
i found you sleeping and struggled to carry you
i find you and i find my brother along the dead run road
i find the air is verbal
where we gather now is fraught with cryptic messages
i desire to unfurl the gut feels that language lost
failing to call into being
those wee explosions leave me bate and fightless
sin is the lived experience
turned to bone or bony tissue
sup from the verb
the question not intended