In my here-to-be-in and want-forward
curling like clouds, uncertain as oracles
of weather, only the yoo-hoo, who, means
me goodbye-hullo, can say, what will
remain to say another day. That is an
another expulsion of breath, another
airhold on a further way, heigh, rhymes
with: too much, that feather weigh.
Small so, soul sow sew s'much, soles
of me feets they hurt, from tramping all
that groaned, ground, delighted to say
see you anyway. Initinsofar we are
ever to born in/ on, whatever's is that
holds, hordes, hoards
fragilities of identity
against the break
of not-to-be said-about
the space
where we flower.
Best
Dave
David Bircumshaw
Spectare's Web, A Chide's Alphabet
& Painting Without Numbers
http://www.chidesalphabet.org.uk
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