In simple shade an indigent itinerary
is lost against the effort to get there. A feel copped then forgotten.
An echo afforded from, I couldn't guess. Built, fanatical landscape;
unheralded heroic absences. Figured out plainly in numbers or
sticking the mind with words. Ticking out like native stuffing,
wishing in a wing, exiting right or left; sticking around. I give
up the song. It hides. It wants the plum I never had, in a metaphorical
garden, forgetting its naked self, no longer nude.