Danny Gentile #75 - Untitled

I read things the wrong way
Consistently and there seems
Some strange purpose in what
Ideally would be straightforward.

There are words like clouds
Shifting the horizon and ideation
Is a haze filling the middle distance
With what is within and holding still.

Do not talk like longitude which
Cracks the map open and leaves it
Lying wounded on the table where
It bleeds advice and more advice.

Do not ask the staves of latitude
To hold the music of their weather
In a stationary field where blood is
Not sanctified in a dormant cloud.

This ardent repetition is not for me.
I lean over the atlas listlessly and
Every horizontal line holds a note
For me to sing in a vague rereading.