to whom will never be here, where we make new phrases for love.

A sample of chaos,

Tended to in a coal-gate,

With invincible passions of old hinges

shouldn’t be gone,

Just always near to ‘that’ line of worms

Wasn’t it a boiling dash? 

Bubbling down as narrow air laughs,

Busting up into the sky

Waiting in the meeting zone where the name was never called,

Fare-fully smiling in a no-show,

for the counted reasons cannot be written here

A faithful cause of passing
Forecast-shadower for every day

Subtle ampersand ate silent blast
&, In aviation of loss,

the auto-correct answers:
‘Wind, I can visit without you knowing’


even if only an envelope,


to have it crushed

Two moons would have made eight stars,

an infinite paradise for that absence

No sadness in the turbulence, 

when cotton magnets a’rattling,

contingence blind to motor puddles,

I will meet you there