Hopeful Sorrows I Intend to Borrow

Peddle down. A Sunday’s cream runs fluid. Here, in evening’s blood. I had a picture. They had a wonder. A question drew us all to sudden thunder. Lost there. In the spokes, the chains. Oh they turn and turn like days or hearts in weather. Milky white impressions of spiraled smoke in perfectly cherished arcs. They lose themselves for us, you know. Into desperate atmospheres. Far away, the dreaming trees. Secret waters. Nearby some machines what put their piss into hopeless heroes. You could hear the sun, its words, in the colors on the mountain. You could be the cloudy passages, written in the sky by time. A Sunday’s blood congeals into orchids like the figures in your mind. The dreaming window speaks once more, a whisper, almost remembered… never forgotten. Step into it. The movement’s rhythm. They had a special purpose, lost to silence and soldiers. Milky white impressions. Far away. Moving waters like his mind, the ways they turn and roil. Silent trees, standing in open air.