Facing The Page, Another.

But always alone, its nature a shadow,

the named instrument's sound, 'I am',

with its spreading field reduced by departure, a tergal loupiat,

forced into conversion, or conversation,

an ursuline beauceant

faced with the mange of dodenage

become a pisteur of self.

Now only the uniform of difference can utter

its song of fleet trance

the impetus cast off from the silken meld

the further loquis of its violent dance

and the questioning that follows, for its bare hand will rest

in the theater of days, a spadille

to give pause in the meetings which follow.

And there is no ending in judgement, the vignon

reveals its othering feurre

the beast which leaps from its roquelaure,

the epulie with its tooth-like head

and the inscription blends to ward

its covenant with the rivelette

the transfigured tassiot of the contemporary.

And as the lion hovers, so the dame,

the striking flame now hachard to the hanging gibralter,

its mitella disturbed

by the engulfing orchards,

its one remarkable tone,

an approach to variations upon a darkness,

its fury now beyond iconic spark,

and the whole hierarchy of being set off as a temporary enchantment,

a portrait of the loving word's salute.

This is what I found in looking

the displaced object of all quotationing

the rude limit of its boundaries

to steer an ornamental course through monumental shadows

the face of devotion lingering

over a legend of anonymous volumes

as the days return their helpless gaze

the outward expanse now migrates,

a doughboy on a virgouleuse

the bed surrounded by bannisters.

The place remains, its mustard under a chipped lid

the fanstastic ideal

now awkward with shimmering.

What can be said?

Is the miracle discourteous,

its wake all fame?

Will meandering cure this?

The journey is contention itself, reordering,

and in the primed remains of sky we sit,

till said:

"There is no final picture."