Those Were Ponds That Were Their Eyes

Here we draft all things, go cracking into the sun. How do questions roll forward and be wind again? I want to question everything, to fool you when you draft the plan. Help the crab crab across the floor. Help little children, help their eyes, prop up the little ones and break through whatever they think they know. Blowing in the mind breeze, is your chin there, is your light on? Wake to the ivory sounds of dogs in the night. Raking teeth and green passion in the waters.  Bearing us up under the robot dawn that whines in the street, a truck sound that makes me your tired darling. You sad in the quiet and me inside you, me listening for your looming shout. I am your looming shout. I am editing as the orange lights of all the cities glow downward. How do they do that when they are cooling in hidden ponds, lightly under rushes?