Hobbled in reticence, hammered stone. "That was his legacy." Star-blown, sand-whipped, shell-shorn wound. Side split and shin splint. Last things and first claims. Each sound contained its resolution. Scattered across fields. Sewn in the moon weave. Signs configured, unrestrained.
"The point is, once the meaning goes . . . " And stood there, weeping. Rehearsing the obstacles. In the middle of something, there's a clue. Reversed direction causing pain. At the heart of the matter, nothing strange. A singular margin, staking its plural claim to fame. So easy to stay on the simple path. Then turned aside and walked off, streaming.
Constant as the disruptions. Consigned to appearances. As regulations counter cases, caused corruptions saved, confined. Other than names, reminders of. Encrypted gestures in the sand, as time rolls past, make way for remnants scrolling by. One switch inscribes a better mood. From room to room a signal's made. Sweet music follows rapped conditions, circulation's sweet revenge.