For j4n

A devil flinging | angels out of a bag | is it | my style? || Some will build the world and, lost in their labour, never consider | the sound the sea of ruins will make | as it trawls | the fragments of all these | beautiful bodies | to and fro | in cool waters, and some | make a beauty of mourning | love even | before | it goes || Midway | creature | always on the lam, speeding to your next | heartbeat | admire | the convolute systems of your | implication | how | when you kiss her | just exactly as the truck goes past | the dusty | water in the dandelion | jam jar | trembles…

En route to | your kind of oblivion | the briars of your blood | arch and sting | No getting away | Accept, this time | it’s real | though every city is Atlantis, and every | Atlantis reminds you of | home

Here it is, then | Put me in a medieval picture with a | madman’s | grin | sewing seeds of heaven perhaps | Scale the walls of my heart | with spindly ladders and send your finest | knights | to challenge me | Imprison me with | a memory of her, if you will | but wait | as bits of the | dust of god | glitter past your head | See how | against a pale blue sky | Fuji | melts to seven different | types of rushing air || Look | while you were making | an appointment with your own | thoughts | I was making echoes | out of snowflakes | landing on the backs of | flying geese

I know, we haven’t | seen each other in a while | But now I’m 100 | I guess we can slow down | and take our time?

And I know, we haven’t | pinned all the butterflies in their cases, yet | and I haven’t even | nominated my | successor | But, really | what’s the point? | Now I’m 100 | what can I do, in any case but | leave you everything

En route to | my kind of oblivion | a devil flinging wild angels | out of a sack | is it | my style?

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from the series hypergrammar (open-ended, 2012–present)