The Beckoning of Days

OR
for the captain of a ship

I suppose what replaces then is substance. I suppose an outward, a licking, such great and necessary touch then paper. On paper we make hands to make different. Use numbers to see drops- hardly to the day of such,

I see curling in.

Wave movement, not so much as to match up each corner but place on cushion and on the disappearing nature of floors.

In times of less presence there is a heavy thumping. There is longing. There are questions regarding the way language motions to eyes then back to beating.

There are strips that stretch further now while clocks I know not and some covering. This over all spirals dictates a certain amount of pages to follow at sunrise.

Without blaming or asking what is suitable. Without ever getting up but always in a swinging motion, allowing for a handsome set of fingers and patches to make do and feed.

In coming or going, take not so much of the walls or stairs. The array of reds and oranges. Take easily of the two lines, the three, the wholeness. Say nothing of a glistening. The softness within an octagon. Say gently of what water does.

In the days of passing, no more than the guiding of shadows within another. Something to show for a time formally known as awkward. One was numbering while the other a map. All so long and full of zeal. While there upon an aspen dangling. While there like layered jackets coming from within couches. Something the sound of mild, drawing to point to channel, more the direction to islands.

And then of hands sitting circled and moon-like. Recognizing that in pit there is a deepness for a bending green and a deepness for moisture. There are fixtures and they are dry but they are moving. They are heavy in the mist and now to a gallop.