[4,2]

i fail in the retry of possible gaps for the middle of canyons in crumbling lights for the scarification of vinyl. it rides through the forest and throbs a small packet where parallel seams scratch a readable surface on the backs of the camels in mirages of separate planes to the bursting eclipse of pronounceable service, two spots on its forehead call out for the country of doubling masses on a highway that cuts into faces in line for the city every stream ties a knot for an opening under the sea i lose all my digits to the moon that will one day be bare to the parched piles of breathing in farms to the doorways that promise a morning on the accident prone to a murder of chance every mouse in the dust in the kitchen will harvest the cold in the sickness of scattering twigs in the answer of mirrors for the double that sings with the night by the prayer full of ashes under frozen cadavers that once were the hearts in the egg of a wound i disappear in the wrap-up for invisible letters that leave all the snow for the hunt to deliver migration on the mushroom fields full of returns under beaches in roads by a promise where the water turns into a home and the blame of the air will no longer wail for the spot in the cloud full of planets while a bubble reenters a womb for explosions in placards like the front of a bus crossing vines in a prairie that were traced on the skin of a goat i look at the picture of too many races for the blood of a horse that a bundle of sleeping 3 shorted connections for the change of electrical chairs under pools of announcements for the battling showers that tell all the stories of war to infants in sight of the corner of trading for the telephones buried in answers under barrooms and sawdust and piers where the songs of an isthmus circle the beacon where the moon cannot pull where a whisper moves sand off a stone i weigh every mote in my eye with the fingers of handshakes they calibrate walks like the wheels of a car they reflect in a wave like untying the knot of a bruise full of ice where once was a number where the count was eleven where equality lifts like the dough that incarcerates mud clots and showers for the vanishing thorn in a guide by the pillow softly omitted what the second hand sees under gears by the hand of a cripple for the ditch in a face that is fine i bury my head in the leaves that the buses were lost in that day when i looked for her here in the Arctic when the telephone poles were the marks of equators when the mornings at home could not write their own name when the shepherd was singing too many shields at the entrance of staring at stars in the basement with the light in the chest of what follows with a walking that pulls at two seals for the trouble in words in the empty in the on and off one why there have to be zeros to raise all the shores for piñatas to line themselves up in the snow under spreading the phase of recalling the crosshairs on the hive that the singing will never return when the breaking gives others a prompt to give air i radio frequencies meant to undress all the parrots in the knot that a hill on the head of the viewer can see without even a monkey to grow with a molecule’s power in a black hole instead of a screen in identity swimming to surface every outlook reframes on a break in circular lots by the parking spot full of directions where a jacket sinks into the roll of an orange in Fez around trains in the mountains that the pantomime echoes in the valley of shells that call out for an engine to answer when penalties cease in the skull of another score gone on the pavement with the sound of a bell that is broken to bear its first weight in the sand