To sing’s to field thought’s
failed arrow, then drop it,
as sadness surprises,
as always, then doesn’t,
its record all rumors, bits
of lithic in its meat,
and floats me dream-dead
to this, its constant room.
From: http://www.conjunctions.com/online/article/graham-foust-04-07-2021
Date: 2021
By: Graham Foust (1970- )