Ratchet Up

I'm thinking I will write something someday, in the day of grains. It won't be posh or the gravelly residue of effect (where you live some days) but a motion after trading. isn't that a picture, pristine as closing, or do I just streak with fast into, knowing that gradually has a distance? we could have an electric rifling thru of page after page after page, written in neat logarithm, thrift being the world's care for tradition. and you and me, together, crust and puncture, but also roads after dark for a kiss of slight bending. the reading will be crow over tool trees, buttering hawk crunch with an effective marionette. but you, your porous literal alphabet has been baking, baking inside a looser christian basis, whereas mine, the stretch down the road over which, your meaning seems largely muttered for clearing. could we agree that poetry names a few things that we have not yet stoned? look to the whales when the next wave gives in. we are friends.