Vapor rises slowly in grey
February, the scuffed snow
Pitted as the peel of the moon
an uncanny gathering of nature’s failures
the florists of the lost earthly paradise
many of god’s elect not known to the herd of mankind
any sentence with “god” in it is automatically meaningless
you have been reproved in an unassuming yet towering act of artistic recalcitrance attesting to a preternatural animal ingenuity
a wonderful part of the current thinking infrastructure
not instantaneous but eventual a nutter or a tosser
the sweet apple grows on the sour apple tree
coolly indeterminate tease the best way to see the goddess
is to bump into her with barely a taste of christian residue
do not share this with any maniacs you might encounter
amid the reflective surfaces of the party boat decorations
in a highly charged neurotic situation it might appear
as some kind of technological signal but we need
information not objects you know
what is meant no doubt
One of the elect
Not known to the herd
She passed from her tabernacle
Of dust to the abode of sincerity
When she opened the door a
Great glory shone from her
Gradually filling the house
So that no shadow fell in it
This glory suffused the city
Spreading thence to all being