Minute cold hard expressions return. Kept to hand by probable stealth, put nighttime trails, accolades in my leaving of comets tail: spewing forth a emerald green and or the crust driven core. Waxing the wane of slumbers beneath, her Sun is the expedition to trying cylinders of foliage and receding day, lugs my kindled night, her sight she grumbles those channelling trails of nights stealth with a course of delivered; by way our garden’s hay of yore and locust shell.

Anterior light, sliced to the nurturing recommended lay of hay, Alice’s hoe, but little had the shooting stars known, their plants be beetled with neon beta blocks, the risen canopy of detectable minds, a yielding slumber beneath the wax and wane.

2019 Adam Blewett ©