Why You Sing Your Pop
Song
Blank green branches
spin around in an unnaturally
white valley. Simply
while you, completed in your gaze, you
knew that you would be
sustained. This ion's what turns
if I relate the drifty
rocks within which the day would
position its antlers.
Because maybe it begins with a
tempoaray contract, and
is sometimes less tenuous if it stands for
passing by billboards,
while within all minerals with a penchant
for hitching rides in
raindrops, these few parachuted out
some of the hopes they
had chewed in their fully petrified
annual rings, except the
few that had already been excluded
in the highly groomed
library aisles that conclude
most mausoleums. You
were no longer tilting our blindness,
being calmied in a
toupee. The strands of your hair trembled,
Your fingers were shaky.
A fish sang in your air,
ad then you remembered something. Even
so you are
edgy in the rocks'
shrinkingly traslucant smokes, even so
the one badly made up of
ventriloquist's doll naming stars
outside the window
strains to see when the one
gentlemen caller flashes
across the viewfinder.
Paul
Baumann
