Now riddle it with chaos: muddied fury lit by mob-borne flame.
Silent morning. Earthly peace. Servant girl re-swaddles.
“Change is the only thing. It’s the only thing there is.”
The seagulls, too: they screech in semi-reliably recorded history.
Such keen eyes, such keen resolve.
I watch her and she’s wistless as she weaves and waves again.
Soundless stands each stretch of houses.
Bayit-Lekhem in wintrous calm as coarsest night kills evening.
Gotta. Gonna. Wanna.
The candle on the island lights the moving, glass-bound muse.
Where is the poetry and where’s the poet that it clasps to?
Play, pleigh, puhley.
O’er th’aural landscape rest the guiding waves.