Clinging Hard in the Warbles

by Mike Krutel

Parted, burning chorus lumps and all uncertain
waves—the center breaks, no dawn with just a little
bedding, down-collapse, the feathered pass-at-will I’m
one. A black the sky can hold, can hammer,
light surround what light is is a glitch that moves and
all the figures—pilings. Finely spread and finely
faltered. I am blood confused, consumed, am with, the
water burning bright adorns. I switch, and all that
drops of splitting I am pulled to tinder-strike like
unremark’ble ambulations creased and razing
hours the day I mean along. It takes some tendons.
Takes some noise that pressured mends the weak in I am
hearing noise and rounding out my clenchfull gut my
lean in alter, clattered frame. The creature doesn’t 
have a number doesn’t need one. Goes the trouble
wreck the creature flits in unexpected terror-
form the creature dense in action boils down in
fruity redux, fuse of butter, solid pitch of 
hardened swarm and love. No hook, no curved and cutting
instrument the roux that breaks us—side from side we 
count the saved to count the lost, we hanged or reddened
creatures lost, allotted finer films of broken 
signals—tygers, lemon pipes, and every thing-ed
leap is culled, is in. With what is built this body?
Meaning, don’t forget to be unbuttoned. Softly—
Broke—some level pulls the whole the chatter
watches, held alone. A choice in not between a
body. Milky coin to toss above the oceans
poles go on—go on for days so shadows’ shadows
form of light and creatures eyes are open, eyes are
up to nothing more. A tumble mouth of stones in
creatures, vast horizon sweat in creatures I am
here with rices—skin it does the feather shaking
shakes the kind of weather tonnage—music rises…
slow, correction: music rides its hardened back so
long across the sand my leans they mispronounce.

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