—for Morgan Lucas Schuldt


How long do you wait
in the station?—

| on the double page |
of day and paper | .

Original lines debriefed,

Where are your own lungs?—
I wanted to ask,

some hours removed,
in a crazy.

System restore.
Withstand clear.

The feeling is painting.
To know you better.

Wherever I am walking,
severed trees

are light-shine clean. Rust-
Oleum can, rusted. Carpet moss-covered.

We had your bivouac
all set. You were expected

for a retake of your page. Familiars
“like” my little of little. We cannot, do not,

post your lickspoon darkling—
even in this botch of body

We do not post your titular
morticians, your titular coroners,

though they—severally—
O proffering nips.

Too punctual dartcoiner.
Littlest of us,

birds, overlook bits
of the littlest still,

red berries, some red not nipped,
no need for debridement.

Light of a clearing,
valour and act—

ventilator, your own breaths,

and the fire that thee then.
Too-too-too not where.

Tout whirring you hier.
Taupe plage widestnabulation.

Tout all leverage two spins.
Wear elegant stays for the vessel.

Words, your vassals, so va-va-va-not,
sail-not. Knot-wood knocks stay.

Yes would knock whose their? Yours.
Stasis budding in vases,

sifting for a banter. Remember
that time

that that that stamped?
Faster over the top,

air creating a region
of low pressure, thus lift.