Not A Poem

— What a to-do this
sum deal of fear,
if it is we who move,
whatever we may
spring to mind,
fallen into more
than what is,
ignoble case plus
wealth, as hidden by
stormy stealth, gray’s
sutured vapid diction
in precarious disorder
a set, endearing the long
redundant volume,
perhaps, transient
views’ ambush,
resistant (or of repose),
complacent sees
when insidious,
wave for idle
inflection’s
needle inside this
holy deep
setback, our suck
(to sus) out at
our salvation’s
soon time which it is
not, an application
of the once grifted,
engulfing tithe, within
recognition’s secret
tale, our inmost soul,
there severed, splintering
traverse by how often
thought of as..
particulars’ best stammer,
bickering to lace one
world of love after
another, reconsidered,
coalesced words
in touch with numbing,
equal as they are, maligned
crackling, and upon no other —