The real rain flowers into the sky. Now polygons, temporary flora leak onto the moon, exhaling an envelope. My breathing soon expires, impressing the imprint somehow. Books blink, plish, yawn; their blood gone rummaging in an old poolhall with shirtsleeves. To take too long is to liken unto leaves, subtracting oneself, sacrificing the queen’s pawn. The air shutters around the brown house. Our paths point toward the light; roughly through speaking to permeate our breathing but now the sparks are leaking into heaven. This page shall serve me a bower. Mail will sail west and mail will fall south. But even off that compass our movements dangle, spin to tangle up and dance an electric dance within the armor of an angel. Data makes it sick, spews from its mouth. It is the twilight of the books. Sacrifice this word, bury it in a field where it might sprout a forest, raining toward the sky. Our movements act in chorus choired in despair. All of us are shouting. None of us are heard. I mention this because I am not afraid. Wings are automatic; mercury is wind; blood grows its double; words are not circles; time has twisted up into a crucible. My body will not grow cold where it is laid.