One Way I Could Do This Poem

Some rearrangements of words, I guess.

[One Day A Title Here]

In a well-timed tomorrow shade, my archives are my savings.
The window of records, blue in the bed (garden)on untrained

axis, the City’s thoughtful reflex. Any person talking,
you’re mine in this long sun. Another archived sleepy turn

awake. A will to open ears to-
morrow color. In daylight she’s clearly a ballerina tumbling

off the book page. She’s got greeting’s leg and line
of urgency, a primal yeah. California’s nostalgic. Just pointe,

and my heel a dashed call to night turn. It is the sparklesound
trajectory in the pointed sunrise toward the wake, window. Now

tonight like past day nuances, goes even paper: indifferent,
whole. Listing: optional: Friday’s escalator, together, eyes

take off clothes, come trick to place a souvenir of
a rose or a car moving in an obvious way. The leaves

are magicked like every thing we believe necessary.
Congregations of faith miss lions, surely magic, one public, one

gets to return, just everyone this way. The talking waters fell
ghostly and made a floating bridge. The flowers of stairs

and headway into alone or afraid we left the wind to take
practice. Painted in the subway, an approximation of famous.

Roiling paint. Carry this. In naming sans the sly, come anything
freelance or mean, meaning fame and nomenclature without due

course, the un-
beknownst mean whiteness. Part of this City’s so-called

see (it coming) a parcel of my friends’ city.


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