Less Meaning, More Mass

When the day begins at dusk
indefinite articles leave the trees
and language is suspended
by the thread of a forest.

Whomsoever shall pass
gains the critic's small mass
and prays to the edges
of a wooden bench.

Concern rings the futility
that smells like a yellow drink
no lemons, no aid, no alligators
can cross this new threshold.

Call the moment what you 
can and sever the connection
between reason and seasons
and minds and matters.

Meaning; what a thing.
It's no mission
but submission
to the cowlick and king.

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