The world is sufficient and this imagined land
a selfsame space under glass, the movement
of mind a revolution, such that the new turning
becomes a sailing, like the viscous water of an
inner harbor pulled from the corners of your mouth.

Necessary and sufficient conditions met, b follows
indubitably from a, and as such statement c
must be true. Thus you sit and are instructed.

And the lunary wind is a part of what you cannot
decide, the procession of feet some other
story, a swinging high into arcs as the cold
front approaches. Not the concerto, but its possibility
is what detains us, threading on its vowels

A decimated country. You know the laws,
are circumspect in the temples
of elevation because this is a way of facing

Those eyes curtaining their journeys
behind the maculae of what is said. No, no this wanted
conclusion leaves wanting evidence,
the straggling in of a few homeless souls battered and
cracking before the feast.

On the purposes of the unaired you are indirect,
working in a few taxonomies, bare requisites of physical
geography, no reports of the inhabitants.

Anticipation of course is only a cross-checking in the thoughts:
a leap away from flames under the apses
like the poignancy of waiting, salt on the tongue
for the clear liquid. Roads trace bloodlines you can follow,
one history here, another there, the miserable family

Remembered. So gathering becomes our new forgetting,
and the way down to the seaside is reserved for the innocent,
and you lover; you are now long past such innocence.