funambulist’s fountain

The wind elides tightly
on morning grass
on couples’s comfort
for shades of distinct satisfactions
and reservoir fountains
in May, in June, and all ailing requests.

Perhaps in the morning there will be fountains
made of steel-wool
for sliding glass
for doors of evanescent transposed lines
like fragments for camel humps that decipher
rhythms and star-belled mountain stops.

In the morning, it will be winter,
even still, I have made my place
for winter
for spring tidings
for evanescent mountain stops
in decalcomanian vespers
and alleged ties to bordering sands.

When spring arrives I will take steps
towards glorious comforts
that weigh indecision with borrowed time
and construct the guilt
that leads into
the masses parting
like bordering sands
like fabricated winter
in dispose of God’s mighty soigné grooves.