My Saltarello

In the year of my saltarello I rose from something sandy, wild wind means, and looked around. And the sentence wanted you along as well. We were brought to the uses of colour while imagining how heavy each wave on the shoreline might become, death to anything. I found in my saltarello a further instant match, a struck sulfur beauty that could increase as the sentence wore its wealth. Wind is strong these days. We imagine the globe as a systemic function. I would have slept late but the sun found its way across the map once more. There was nothing that I could do. I love the sound of saltarello on the tip of morning, in the excelling buds, in the dampened possible means, in the sideways grass. The wind is fury from the wealth of long ago. Its sentence fulfills a brink. We face the wind. We make the electric talk of profit and loss. Some remain with us, all along. Some images are scratched with charcoal onto undone paper. We groom the whole narrative from one to two, all the points that we can imagine. The saltarello persists in tribute, slaying demons by mere exalt. The energy again, and again, even past weeping. I want to hold your hand again, a matter of trial and trail. Our ship intends a consummate port of days ahead, fetched to saltarello wind and sun.