Twining

There are some things

arranged against a wall

painted red in some setting’s

sun. There are some songs

sung along with by four or

more yellow birds blinded

by the nests they built too tall.

There are certain phrases which

in the uttering thereof prescribe

a new path, new trajectory

unknown heretofore. There are

instruments too delicate to measure

anything but their own design.

There are ripples, but still, that circle

their origin. There are traffic signals

forever marshalling the empty night’s

intersections. There are some suns.

There are creaks in this house caused

only by the pressure of time’s passage.

There are scrimmaging histories in

the veiny leaves. There are bits of food

stuck between teeth that can provide

nourishment and stave off hunger until

the crops come in. There is electricity

stored deep within the roots of ghosts.

There are headaches buried beneath

the pages, waiting to be read aloud.

There are babies inside the babies.

There are twinings, lopings, elongated

sutures that stitch our sleep to a leaking

memory. There are knots in the focus.

There are bloats in the bloodstream.

There are smokes in the backwash.

There are snows in the filmstrips.

There are fuses in the smolder.

There are lips that bleed curses.

There are groves of cheering news.

There are slows within the frequency.

There are fortunes in porcelain.

There are ready bulls in the glass.

There are traces trailing the dustroads.

There are hollows in the graveyards.

There are lots of balloons below the glow.

There are solenoids in the shallow homes.

There are tourniquets in the breadcrumbs.

There are heaves in the ovens.

There are slatternly dresses in the chasms.

There are droves of hopes in the clearing.

There are withers in the ailing treeboughs.

There are clutches in the serpentine belt.

There are manumissions burning the stagecoach.

There are calliopes engrossed in statuary gardens.

There are roasts collapsing the ductwork.

There are arrogant rainbows bloated with tact.

There are foraging vowels blissed out on mood.

There are complex networks of concern on your skintone.

There are still buds blinking the winter’s weight.

There are blankets that broker this firestorm.

There are mucus webs where a spider skulks.

There are pillowglues.

There are Stratocaster rasps.

There are suicide spokes.

There are gratuity forecasts.

There are annealing pasture hasps.

There are slothful pulse meters.

There are roans in calico plaster.

There are housegoats.

There are chosen coughs.

There are slotted notches.

There are grailhooks.

There are builts.

There are props.

There are excepts.

There are losts.

There are closets.

There are quiets.

There are shafts.

There are drains.

There are ones.