R/ckets and S/ntries

working in light, on a mention falling over the edge but wait. the surrounding field produces a 'poem', something to press into memory as a finding and cultural gap. not clear enchantment but something sung as possible, along lines and derived. we can close a store, smoke screen, the tapestry of weird revelation. Bach wakes in his mood, his music a gulf. were we to present, buying the threshhold and sleeping easily, then the consistency of the effort would become a singular wall, reach into town. the town is all a-jitter, what with the facts now 'in'. it seems all is crock and crumble, without a light left on. Vietnam has yet to go away, but lingers in the offing, to tell a different story. each story goes a bundle. each, to his/her, own. there is no safe parlour, nor a glimmer in the night. not until the rising logic finds a trail. the aliens are soft and mellow, and its their night we behold. it should be ours.