Kevin Kvist Peters Shovel Left Next to a Rock

The ocean is black with a candied head softly using its waves to pull the vegetation into itself it must pass the time somehow trust the organisms asserts one type of hope which is why you made the doorway from lace embraced rust on older tools as they insist upon smell air vows it’s wine the gloom is of magnesium the insects are out to coax their very nature prophetic chambered their sardonic symphony a comprehensive rhythm witchcraft & kelp are marginalized in tandem I leave habits everywhere wind swings on each shoulder to suggest changes of thought or mend paint drips disposed on a log carbon’s density leaves behind its search party wanting their hunting grounds to be tangible not speculative or existential a gull hovers & drops a crab others descend upon helplessness the cliffs are secretive but mistake not they’re headed somewhere maybe to colonize a binary meeting place- who is mocking who I eat violets as I watch them or whatever purple flower this is I revel charcoal function poised in a barren land lock because Saturn’s vinegar atmosphere boils and I am jealous untended clamor striations deposits follows I didn’t know what to do so I began picking wildflowers & placing them on the back pages of books as a small present to myself when I finished on the jelly cliffs teasing the pacific a privacy detail vows cadence tincture few windswept trees curve over the road a gnarled tunnel I’m concerned that I don’t understand how gravity can spin a planet in place & not crush us even in this informative age there are some things I want to know but refuse to learn like why waves turn white in their tumble experience (visual dominance) perception: thoughts to reinforce & justify perception frozen vegetable medley in a bag when do you recognize mold I have demands staring into each others eyes as you licked blood from the finger a man removed fresh lilies from the grave I can’t stop seeing disembodied bird wings on the ground & recently the decapitated head of a raven which seems too metaphoric to be real succumb to preserving the useless feeling in the context in space water cut with the hand’s blade

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