Each riddle (cause for, unheard) - drooled upon the glimpse of psyche,

playmate vie with the portent day, woken to

with heavy rind,  a cloth

of circumstance –

is a zephyr trail, a bipolar dupe;

a rush of strawberries or the frugal vines of bed grapes.

We are angles bloated, presumed

controllers of our cortex –

trip wires and bobbin,

spun upon words that mean everything,

and silly goats flocked off

the hairs of our woollen tongues.

If a thought could keep you warm,

no warmth need ever be born –

upon the scars of solar dances, budding limbs and lips,

departing Piscean mistakes,

reaching for a hook to die, alarmed -

la petite mort –

 nor score itself upon the homestead

of our birth,

  a real wood, and the real wood burning,

 a real match and the real scold turning

 thought to present

and present back to lack of thought .

 

  Need we a care? 

For we create each world

from air .

 

Watch  

the hair line escape,

 tumbling without any discourse.