The way here is through particles of self and to the dust and the sea and that breath.
Distance and the sandwiches.
I forget all my head and I don’t like it where is the weather of himself to wear through the streets and along the train rails.
The broken brick lay in a pile a few yards from what’s left of the industrial structure: the flowers and the plants interceding.
On the rubble mound shoes probably me with them finding the space listening to the nearby fields no sound but in vibrations my self is the song space.
naïve haircuts 
Great poetic metaphor. Loved this composition.
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Thanks. Glad you liked it. I was very much impressed with your latest post.
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Thank you for your valued encouragement. I appreciate you.
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The arrangement and the lack of punctuation create a lot of possibilities. I like to think I’m hearing it in a different way than you were when you thought it. Move your emphasis one word left or right and meanings change
“The weather of himself” is a great way to think about moods, masks, facades.
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Thanks Andy. I intentionally left out the punctuation to give it a more fluid reading. I’m glad you picked up on that, it makes me feel the poem worked. I really appreciate the comment, you always have something thoughtful say.
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