The East Village

Allen Bramhall


ardent downcast, overcast, age over water. slight prance and trickle
down to theories risking nothing but doing so sweetly. chance begs the
question that arose, pre-dawn. its particular hue clocks at a terrific
speed, mild understanding, questions for a lifetime. desperate
tenderness shows concern but the active anxiety morphs argent and

dour opening for classic sailing. net gains will arrange the brief
mundane portrait. something will be rarely said, close to rainfall.
when language adverts its position, humane difference will unlock the
tunnel entrance. burrowing is love, frightful as that seems. gesture
in the drafty space becomes merely a nod to verbal profit. people will
arrange their footing, as in the special tasks for each day. the
history of art, a foregone joke, looks sheer and rapt as the
discussion heats. exchange is a day on the town, looking at rogue
swans and interviewing the fortified. now is not the time.

when statements fester within broad terms, ideas form radiant
pictures. warmth jumps from an airplane. following along, the fall is
tremendous, depth as rush. wind frees more hazards and people talk.
words go for broke, or breaking. the chirp of the bird nearby, bushed,
changes nothing except those who thirst for such info. prospects look
hazy. leave the tray outside the door, try harder. greater activity
reaches vatic state.

lamp close dog noun. rush. backdoor dogma force. prey way stray say.

known in noun.

a verb has its time, landing on the spot, energy as word space. no
likely argument today.

adjustment to talk spreads out, spraying wet remarks, drying to be