Stones, son and love and song, jeremiad of canticle, a sloven song for the wretched of this stripe, all the wreaths all the gurneys, all the wished kisses on doorsteps to be a good boy; you're here now with this, this world alive and retching and I've hope and I know...
I just know
That all things pass, this bears repeating: all things but us and our love for this; all technology, all scaffolding, all river shall shift, the bend of us, a pi of breadth related our longevity, see: we gnaw at this nut, our gums raw with it, the pleasure of our work, our industry and our philosophy and our reprieve; the selfsame cacophony of sorts, gnashing of gears and love's antidote, a sunken cenote somewhere in us; melville's wharf, your manhatoe, soup's kitchen or bowery, or an Olath gun behind a Casper stripmall, your field; your song.