2+ x Jack Kimball

8th

A brad to ale fact to fates
of similar ivories around saints
who are silent among this engaging
sad business

Their thinning knots, albeit
on air in more manly bottles, their colors
the same as riveted skies
at sea

There but for crashing sabers goes
the hammered satins settling what seemed
to lay access,
still no settling of kind

For fanatical perceptions
satellite among fiends
at the foreign office
among men other than engaging

-- Their diaries swollen,
puzzling as batters'
histories in a psychiatry
dispatched for chaos

-- Yet subjects of desire in the 8th sense,
an echo understanding
in invisible light

Minimalist and suddenly just theory
while the drove presses on (are they?)
lightning resistance of the other 7
awing in a wolf's regime, venal-making

A snap of the wrist from birth, death and
stealth-providing and caring polemics,
teased off

To the cave keep
from undertaking
to give and fake pleasure, embarrassment..
and a heaven forgetting

There's brush fire
to mosquitos
shot through the throat
asking too much

 Emily's doors

I'm among wallflowers' will-o'-predicting
Parades in the nouns. Yet American pieces
Los these winds nothing since of accuracy.

Women and men, nouns and younger, then, move
Herd for you. Yeh, everybody
that tones up stoppered
As though a mistake meant
Whatever you do, like troubadours,

And.. you want people up there. "I" doesn't move any more
Than and to be, not even its ruddy. Let's fragile.