ASSASSINS

peaks

and the city



                      -wan mass


of Writing

Marked                with

weeds.





                           Certainly squirrels live in the woods







   hung sleep quelled the rioters

                                                  marble



minor

                                rods of



                                                  air



some quiet bird                 nothing for



                                         pride

                                                       light boats perform

or a harbor                                                                         a light

print

                to found

paper the land                                                                      magic

                                                                                 made of paper

processed other



                corners



rolled seclusions

spent

flung vineyards and

oyster beds

electric







area wrinkles

seminaries

      area Wrinkles

       the bath               the bed




the formal ox

                                          the cart







the      grown mountains         peeled your

razor edged between from         the map





    everything  by small gray Light

  and    warded drama machinery

and            quietly        the rinsing





Vulgar assassins the peaks the city And
wan writing marked with weeds
Certainly squirrels live in the woods
Hung sleep quelled the rioters  Minor
rods of air some quiet bird Nothing for
pride or a harbor
Light boats perform a light
Oyster beds electric seminaries area wrinkle the formal ox, the cart. To found
paper, the land, made of paper, processed other corners Magic spent in
seclusion melody on flung vineyards
Your between is grown mountains the razor-edged map of peeled drama Everything by
small light by grayed machinery
And quietly the rinsing from our poet Filthy
with the poem



On vineyards and oyster beds, the electric wrinkle of

seminaries and bed & breakfasts stuck

like carcasses in the shoreline, your razor edged

mountains fell.



Grayed machinery. Light boats perform a light print.

The map peeled everything away by

guarded light, rinsing vulgarities in the

Sound. 



Rinsing our poet, filthy with the poem. Here,

talk the fable:

Emerged a tower into past, into tapering artifice of sky.

The feeling of yourself became useless, as void charged like a beacon. Your

creative middle an instance of air, the logical climate went tender. A mountain

poured out all the wind.

A petal broke

A rainbow.

--

from Vat

--

By Julia Kiernan 👍