Tap tepid streams updangled sparkle-ing
Flush firmly with a feverous tenor,
A walking rushing seedbed tumbling
For suds and globbing glistens in their scores.

By fabric chairs on dewy grass,
The brittle air pervades from high,
Unfolding from mounting forests,
Arrayed in pews like earnest choirs,
The morning sun burns fiercely as they rise,
Theirs is the birdsong ushering the day.

Animating shapes,
Until I form them into symbols,
Breathed upon to give them pace,
Symbolic of a running figure,
Jumping, stomping with a breath,
Finding in a static world a place to linger,
Though itself in motion none the less.

The darkness pools,
Shadows lapping at my shins,
They seem to wash away my waist,
And shiver beneath the dim screen light,
Receding from the slope of my arms, Just below my chin and up again,
My face and chest an island in the midnight ocean,
The darkness seems the rest on edge.