The Sentence

Words, when they fade,
are instruments of back
ground. The spine needs
the pine to be sure that 
each is right. Angles 
jangle with the fruit
of the wind, returning 
each line to geometry,
biology, blue. Language
blurs itself when it shies
from itself, realizing the
destiny of every taxpayer.
Breathe in anger and chaos,
breathe out the little water
falls crashing the creekwise
calm. Music plays with levels,
discovering beveled ledges,
revering the incoherent,
disheveled animal whose
tracks are the long past.