the honest eye of virtue cascading down towards the bottom of rain that supersedes the myth of intrusion. the poet in mind with hands like feet trembling down towards the rabbit hole with teeth of ivory and tusks of war.
delighting in so and so with the cowardly fear of the fox, feeling out towards the misty night without care and depth just like the sun. or what.
the coffee drips slowly down towards the mountain where we wait for the moon to fall so the day can begin. the smell so sweet and the anticipation warming the hearts of people as they sit. on rocks.
the horizon is near, he said, without fear. that’s impossible, he thought, with great fear.