Folding aspirations
of desiccated summer day
spell asleep.
Hear then, the parched dead,
the waterlogged unborn,
lurking in the grass.
The reason for not understanding
is brief and malicious.
Focus is a motive,
perception another word
for grasping logic
of matter in motion.
It is then I measure
the distance from here
to the origin, a time I know
as beats of the heart,
as attempts, a pursuit.
The reason for not understanding is brief and malicious. The waterlogged unborn lurking in the grass. Two cracking sentiments in a decent ode indeed.