Incursion

He walks his weight toward

a likely sluggish pace. 

Harvest is a trope. Rope tricks 

pleasure themselves

a little to the south of fever.

Cleves nudge the thought 

of tipping over. And under-

ground. A magistrate, a magus 

just breaths away from symphonic

seeds. Granules all too near

he prays if he prays

at all. How tall an infant 

may be about to be? 

And will he beam a slip of insistent 

light upon a span of trees? He lumbers

in my sleep. Complete with vowel

sounds receding within the mind 

of an envelope. A spring fed

moat. A relay still circumstantial

cradled constantly away.