It was almost idiomatic
The way the people left the train
Rushing, because the weather hadn’t
Dampered their agenda.
.
One old sailor was sent acquiescing,
Left behind into dust
By the word of the buzz,
And the helicopters illuminating mortality over town.
.
Sounds of flugal horns are wrapped up.
There’s a striated rise
In the way that
Flowers and butterflies flank molded vortex.
.
The street that sings
In keys of symphony is just down the block,
You can
Run to it by breathing hot air into a standing corpus callosum.
.
Don’t ask me no questions,
And I won’t tell you no lies,
Things propagated by hands,
Vetoing up and down the new pallid soft machine.