3rd Prose Block

Turn rhapsody into a lift-driven whorl & who will climb (down, in) wherever you, me, at an exactness, greased ozone-light partitioning surf, a webbing of blacker shades. Notes circle upside-down jetties, fog decomposing, lesioning us as it splits, hovers, relaxes. Isn't too often you pursue a middle, but not tonight. Scales packed in with mud, pearl-compressed. You have twenty minutes, flurries as wheels, broken wooden piers. Soft virgin dawn, whose ether spreads soundlessly, a tapestry of cerulean, conch & jade. Too many flicked-at commas, a litter washed up. Choral vent, hands interlocking. Debris that used to be conscious, and as and as and-- it could go further, yes, now? Should movement speak a spiritless axiom, ascend, with you in tow (in two).