It comes from nowhere, but lands now. It builds itself into
stars and hiccups, slipping. Shine lands on foundation, as it calls and disappears
timely. The plain of pattern stains tattoos onto film. Flatulence’ don’t exist,
the grey-zone we believe. It rams into the animal in front and welds all pell-mell
into the mohel. It never actually sings.
In the spire of will, we want wafflery with it, neat squares
to glisten and mine – digging deep in order to shine, the ton of milling and
shavings pour down until still. The difference is nil, ton and void, since the
arch flows up again then down. It is always a matter of shine, and much of a heart.
We need both to be one, to be two together and still. It is always laundry in
the wind, and it's bugs in the sand.
image: Dog, Sea, Wife - more cairns at: https://www.doronoll.com/noll-cairns