Out printing
the rolled gleam
or/of a deity dream

Out rocking
the benching street
of/or a scalene seat

Out sprinting
the curative lean
of/or a piety team

Out hocking
the brass watch
or/of a polish notch

Sky Father

The sons—to be anesthetizing son,
mediated of,
benumbed, blessing born
of fractional brilliance,
innervation as
black tongue effacing coal.

The grooves marked,
shift, pivot and swivel,
reds, a pair
of shadowy, tight visages.

Revealed, reevaluated,
through normal conversing course,
decked inwards, and comprehended.

A hundred lies, a novel word,
tinsel confounds crevicing
jaw mouthing
bones (like the plying
of Vilnius’s songbook).

Warring, beloved, striating
afield from sparse poetics,
expounding on
a feeling; a secret widow, tapped,
the closed,
monotheistic looks.

Small Grass

When our gray
did tender

our blue night

trilled up
and down

a mellowed

the wakening song.