Ammoniac/Dragon

How about a dollar? Or the every pine needle I’ve ever smelled as they stood in front of that winter wind that couldn’t stop and said, “Have you ever considered grace?”

They held the Bible ‘top their heads: an ancient mothball shield. They shook and though of still the slivers in the wool and November chill that let the men and child atop its back. (flying north)

It took then like a dragon; oriental snow draped like ammoniac freeze steam from the dots: a base.

It’s back was wave – the snow cried to it’s blizzard belly, so many men; so many movement’s waste.

The grey – heaven high; Earth below, the grey the snow. The reverend stood atop the fluid beast, “The Lord. The Valley of Death is small. Is many in all the clock. This place.

How about a dollar? Or the every pine needle I’ve ever smelled as they stood in front of that winter wind that couldn’t stop.” And said, “Have you ever considered grace?”

He was just a boy. They died. A dad and boy awoke in sheets of snow. Their suits were wool. They walked into the woods. There was a girl, a monster and a tree: they smell a trace.

The melt! A second passed. No more. A freezing bus that takes a boy away, back to the North, a cottage window deep into the snow, radio: screaming of a frozen pack.

It took then like a dragon; oriental snow draped like ammoniac freeze steam from the dots: a base.

Thick ones barreled through the trees; deeper, fists and clubs laced with a blood. Smashed glass never really leaves your hair, and baths with only loose the muscles in your seizing mace.

The masks and metal eyes, the hair chopped in a bowl, the little boy. His eyes and paper lips into the only spring that’s blessed, the birthday party shouts, the sun at ten o’ clock. Their back:

How about a dollar? Or the every pine needle I’ve ever smelled as they stood in front of the winter wind that couldn’t stop and said, “Have you ever considered grace?”

How about the bears that dance; the ochre paints and brush the strokes that flicker thick and drip too high? Moving speed; slow his thoughts weigh thick his shoulders shaking like the drawing finger ace.

The Pinto moving in a circle right towards the line of sky the road becomes so fast so twitch so rapid shaking that the rock itself takes to the air and all the wheels detach

It took then like a dragon; oriental snow draped like ammoniac freeze steam from the dots: a base.

A hundred million pinpricks on the chest to boil to roll to watch the freezing wood burn to the ground: to let the human face give the grace and give the pace.

But after all the single placed (the momentary states that don’t and won’t exist) the moan and low paced notes swing low and clear resound into my couch and hack

How about a dollar? Or the every pine needle I’ve ever smelled as they stood in front of that winter wind that couldn’t stop and said, “Have you ever considered grace?”

It took then like a dragon; oriental snow draped like ammoniac freeze steam from the dots: a base.