Quiet. And then: aspens. Crepitations
of new something leaves untwisting
from dormant bondage like Houdini
en masse. Between each in its secret
gasp for an underside the reverse
of oxygen, where bronchial translation
mimics conversion like a Christian
evangelical from contraction, what
pumps bleats, circulates to ensure
no vacancy in marrow whose height
lectures from a busybody disarray
of entombment. Thinness collects
silhouette confusion. Technically
skinny and below, sans thought. Sketching
transient ripcords. And what. The eyes
screaming up, no parachute.
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