The wing, Francis Picabia

We obey the coaxings of our end.
          Wallace Stevens

Although aweigh the days obiit aphotic,
untranspire. Albescent solstice. A film of dust
muting forests the imagined likeness of the noumenal
flux, an utter pulsate lichening. Ci-git ci-git ci-git…
an utter pulsate lichening. Albescent suns in anchorage
selenian for rest to unreplete and irredeem.
Here and there a kyotesnout moles from foliage, returns,
sieving flour where it’d been a slew of falling stars
sideral then cleidoic shuddering parturient, resewn.
Send all my best then burn the rest artically sic sic sic…