release clutch on stuff, nowhere to go, no one to be, one terse tweet to the next, man goes 
there, stops, then another anywhere, stops, not so much story as leaf flown by gusts, shut 
pores reject air luft and you plow off on orders said at jest in your obeisance, who sings 
on the fringe now, the book need not appear in some hand, a touch turns you toward it, 
the sentence won't close but digs beyond where you are to surface back here, taut to shed 
dead scales, writhing in stillness, it moves without motion, from ask to absence