Adonis, descending.

You may feel now the blue winds of changing
yet we will call up a stale, run-of-the-mill tempest
to fly every seed from your lush window-boxes.

Howl down your trenchcoat's sanforized attendance
explode all the grains of new living's enchantments
we collect in the folds of consignment dependents.

We pack souls in pale light and on dreams wet cement.

The Hyphenated Ma-n

Pierced by the Ar-row of T-ruth
Ba-lance-d on the Ca-nine Fulc-rum
Weighed up-on a Tin Halo
Me-asu-red with Ja-de Inf-in-it-ies

The Hyphenated Ma-n
Con-spires al-one in Unt-angl-ing
Endless Future Gods

I Al-ways Ob-serve