It's So Morning Here

Go ahead and warhorse she warned me. At that moment, I was glistening with late-day bead-lets of moisture crowded along my arms and shoulders from dithering out along the path astride the duck pond where avian instincts bettered mine, tucking in to feathers near little pouches of shade. I made myself hasten toward indoors, or so my gestures showed. At that moment I wasn't really interested in anything, just barging forward obeying the soft-spoken angel within me breathing into my ear Don't fall (for his proclamation of a faux war). Don't crawl. Don't stand still. Don't sit near the whippoorwill. Plenty of fronds to encompass treetop needs. Pretty much anything natural maintains room to bleed or breed or seed struts protective as wheels. About that: Momentum has been my sole gear sustained by juggling tools and claws and pens at hand. Oh, and car keys and fishing lines. Plenty to erase with memory afloat. I have sought never to gloat, mostly talking to myself and silently. Poaching vacant land and landing there. I frost each patch of places to walk. I talk back to solemnity as though I were clamoring to be named Pope. Speaking of which, has anybody noticed how many female priests-to-be have bowed their heads into the carpentered pews and left their goals behind in the flurry of blinding light? It's so morning here amid the winter of scarcity when clockfaces stay true to their simple pose their ample roles. Just like the model of the inverted male has quashed noticeable trajectories of little Buddhas with soft faces and hard eyes and sharpened minds. Just like the quinine I have in mind. Just like your attentive self, elfin and rarely relaxed. Just like the obvious most dream patched with taken spaces already full up as the saying goes with not a shred of room for you.