In this lunar diagram one fragrance was my last ounce of politic hope.
Oh you know, unhappy 
We supplemented photographs for subject matter, I recall, 
one of garland fungus, students foreground (by an arch to abandoned parks). 

It’s up to pond structure to model one’s passivity learning the moon’s
mother tongue, stray vowels discharged by shore conditions
and birds in flight.

Protecting the hang of dignity threatens it.
Everyone knows that. Everyone alive. A little sick, even unwell,
a man’s voice is still handsome, calm, howbeit scrappy. 

Further down the pillar, a kimono was entered, explaining prehension
without one’s perfecting tongue in cheek.