to fall and park at the past 3 weeks’ worth to a kind of record

VII.can I ask youit is raininga kind of weeping from the skycan I ask youfirst a prayerI start at Wednesdaydo you sighdo you sayorare you silentsilent as each of my days’ poetryas the prayer of the poem of each daywind in wiresa bus that comesthe girls the bus girls speak about truthabout truth and beauty about truth and beautyand innocencecan I ask you who is true to typewho is who who is nottrulyand how high their skirts were at the ballSaturday unclear to me nownow a shadow deforms in the heatwhat awareness does it take to formlong shadow of meaningwhat else will you takecreeps over horizontruly the 6th of Decemberdressed for all weatherpacked front and backa witch boarded a bus witchhat green rib sweaterbackpacked and fanny packwith four blond daughtersher golden ones princesses numbered fourwhite ducksa black bordered photograph of Blancasomeone doctored for instagram the lost gooseher white flock left behindto shed tears at farewellsand returnhomeamply in the wiresEliot the wind saidChristmas camea song at least one saidare they not innocent and beautifuland untrueVIII.scream and climb the ribbonlight onto horizonand climb downpointed legsa spider danceswith white legsdarkness completeas moon whiteness totaland toxic treessmall furred and feathered bodiesa lunatic enters the fieldit is the new yearIX.how have you chosen me before you have chosenhowout of a fist tight cocoon a shadow deformsa prayer firstand a saying openscreepsbefore you there was then the dead hourEliot Tiresias lifea feather on the back of my handwind the wind the windthe wind that knows all has been foresufferedforesuffering allthe wind knows amply knows the wiresand if he did not believethen she spoke I have not not the numbers not with me I have not googlenot with me not I have no cellI have notnot Ia halo flew from the sunto her headfrom saying not Iecstasy of saintschildrenI saw this on the 7th of Januarythe day after my son’s birthdaySaturday