R/ckets and S/ntries

the top of the wind flew off and now where are we? when we invent Haiti as an expression of utmost pain, we see the wind. the wind explodes over colours like you know what, but it reenters our world with conditions such as wind itself, decapitated. that's okay and you know the sound of a mouse multiplied by insolence, in the dark of everything. suddenly it's just alien, like the nose of a horn. or when you press against the glass nature of whichever, when verbs are your toes. the top wind in memory includes a puttering sound, as we all get old. we redeem in the mental marsh next to our community, which is poetic, if cattle prod. a real nature exists in dollops of creme and a penchant for musk. the toppling of wind will fill endless days, rich news when you try to be tired. the poem that wants you will land over nice. the wind is over the hill, it unmasks, it takes a tree in hand: why aren't you reading faster?