here’s a crisp rendering breeze from a hurried canister of weather down below. it rocks the blimp for memory’s sake, into the waves of ruction telling certainty how to go. remaining strands connect us to the long end of the thought. going miles to miles and all around, a cup of tea awaiting. it bothers one and doesn’t another. and above Fenway Park the crowd notes the hand of facts. sure a helicopter consummate in traffic watch. we could be there. or run the tunnel toward the place, trained for the moment when arrived in the time. someday or two a plane will burst, a fracture in the sky with all the need around. this love poem that presents itself, and calls America like all continents are one of ours. which you have to admit, complaining all the way. the rhythm is absurd, and you will take of different skies. Ron Silliman was in the air about it. he listed things and swept away. we thought it fancy, tender or newer than the door. the sky is still or not the same or when I was a child or more than ever. look at your trust. the blimp heads to a place in time, where else would it need to go?
---from ongoing work, "Blimp Gulf
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