Twelve Billion

I must hold on to glad to be home

Returning. now, let go of the wood

to the thunderclouds we're under, always apart

to omission.

to new meanings to the feeling I've only been able to find on one short strip just East of Kansas City that I am small in a dirty daunting

to coverage of the Be Beat

to frontiers of periphery and the Knowns we never see the wicker bowler atop the landscaper who's trimmed every week, the yard across the street which I've canvased in every imaginable state which's since Mrs. Tanzay's first grade, Remained.

to Inherently Exhaustible Knowledge

poetry