The daily forest

There, in the very ambiance of being
thought-forests sterile
trees of compassion
exist
erect
their blades
on air

branches always
grow anew
explore the plaine of satin
& coal
the plaine we call our limit
so blankly
the plaine we never quite
reach here

branch lines...
why the sweetest lines
the ones that get you walkin'
w/ no shoes on
w/ no shirt but the one
of tornado juice
& first summer's sighs
lost sighs
missed ones
now pale

devastated wheelless wagons
still on fire
slaughter-headed
stale graffiti-spangled
roll on

as you
roll on

while the plain we call our limit
is just our thought-forest's
regular
daily
basis