six meters across from the furnace and sheaves in tourbel on the stomached dock

he really was not thoughtful about it, this one,
to witness your breathing in false stunted air?
like partially revealing the speech tonight…..
if only there were aqueducts in the sight of the city,
less and more trouble than a favored voice in the morning

there are so few resurrection balls as lofty as this one – oh,
the birthing chandeliers are nutrophic like the further feather,
ablaze, and curtailed, hurting out of longing that is not emotive.
no, no passive counterparts are skipping the logging centra-station,
preserving the dock school and weathered porcelain matches.
there are so many defeated salutations intended for this greed,
this less than pleasant soil of the paternalistic fireward – I’m
sitting on a fallen pillar in the rubble, not another person in sight,
this effervescent sown freight, not gesturing tolerance from its smile
hhmm