Wouldn't say why
over iris, speckled grouse,
of units, emergent on fidelity.
The field is no longer open:
our good is no good no more.
Speak with open mouth & hands
on the varieties of grace
or green grass waving its "hello"
at the lakes, still frozen, churning.
The mouth is a wry line straight:
my timeline's broken open.
I keep pulling the horizon
closer: I many need to call my broker.
Fallow lines, a systemic corrugation
at work with all these white people.
Did it always work like this?
Has it always felt like this.
A closed system is not closed:
it's just avoiding the hassle.