Words and the Sky, Each Will Fly

Deliver me a language 
and I will be a messenger 

regifting each phrase
to the next phase of our

concertina labyrinth. We are
jazz, the great idiom, basically

a grizzled mid-twentieth century
centavo, a cowboy of whiskey

and whiskery words, type-
written, unlike my dream crepe

of folder folded doldrum digitas. 
There's rain out my eyes, to the side,

a vow, a guide, a guise. May our 
lies become our vows, our hows

become our nows, and may we
sit together, sitting.