and then I thought about recollecting all our time, there's hope there, maybe even in trying to recall what might've already been drifted away in the lapping wakes. wings, spread out again!
the inessentiality and the floodlights still has us waking scattered in a hollow and what little consequence the difference between the floating points unverifiable and whatever furrowed dream we spill like dust - it doesn't land so expectedly
staring up at the sky lying in a quiet corner of the landfill of history listening to some distant celebration, yes, welcome. this is my landfill
mist lush rippling paddies like plates and the sky hill stretches upwards, small animals leading, up on stilts entirely, jumping extremely high
first with a telephoto of a corner shifting then push into the marshlands, you, pedestaled
tiny ice cove
the water is water and yet just above the lapping little ripples icicles hang from the cinderblocks' edges
a thin layer of water on the bottommost with miandering platforms with ladders expanded into a serene and dark magenta to emptiness