Sky-Bulb-Time
The full yellow balloon hanging low
says, ‘hello panging fool,
how’s your low hell?
You know
not what
it means to die.
As I career
my nightly yo-yo,
what you present as present is pre-sent.’
I weigh-in thinly
two ways win thingly,
wincingly,
win-sing:
I lie with this ascent and presently
laugh at this
‘previously precious crib crescently
nestling with stars
though wrestling with ours…
Such visions are all’s:
pleasant for peasant and king —
take wingly pheasants even evening
angling insects in seconds
orientate accidentally from
occidental to oriental stews
flaccid dent daintily emptying anew,
invisibility indivisible
from substantiality bendying
bumptiously
(what ground sapiens gerund you as)
to glowing face,
new flow embrace,
few grow apace,
you ‘whoa’ ace
from far flung flowing full
give us gibbous, new,
blood red or blue
super, harvest, frightening too.
You’ve been binary and not
thus binning the binary spot.
Your ambivalent ambience ambiguates
where you land,
dead rock.
Renting salience berates
cherished, rushed, planned
wedlock.
You are
spontaneous only by what’s before you
cloud, mount, bough
don’t mind you me
for behind you’re free
to do the same thing again.
Yet you from whom lakes reflect and seas react,
who aches retract and pleas refract -
with mazed expression
you clock
each swoon
