The brush burn of dusk. The abstract knuckles of the soul. A square root solitude, but I never grow weary of distance’s forearms.
And if I pause, here, at the ditch before the moon, to sum up
The piles of self greedily practicing the baton.
The shadow of a square root
As I fitted my boots with abstract feathers.
Shapes of self cannot keep pace with a gutsy widening.
The pain is such that we will have to wobble home
Uncanny with size.