Demons crouching as if they were there
a melancholic dawn, an interval of desire
for those who weep and express the fire
in which the words themselves appear
among the weeds tonight I sleep
an emotional account of being so much
tonight I will write in the air with my crutch
to indicate that which belongs to me
the thin, arching swan neck of the orchid
or a field-to-field music of care
there is weather in the distance, dreamed
to be the imperfect ground of a perfected theme
yet defined as the simple where where
each sentence may be corrected by a moonlit arcade
____
visuals taken from footage found on youtube; words and music by Tony Tost.
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