Raymond Farr
In Between A Plum and Sound

I can’t explain “nature” intentionally.

The whirlpool was music I raced to keep up.

The past is dark I slowed to see.

The whirlpool had a face.

“Forward” was music renovated by innovation.

The plum was weet.

“The plum was sweet” decided the music.

Contrived sensation.

Remain attentive while I write: The blue crossing

where the quarter horses stood.

I waited while Time.

As I see, I heard: “walking down staircase.”

The sound toward moved simultaneously.

A blue plum was sweet.

The singular, and its shadow, half-insane in the crypt.

Escape was the music.

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