A flare of birds leave
a trace in the cynic's mind;
flight is not skywriting
and
"seeks to keep
alive all
volitions."
An evil, fire-close
to real movements,
does not disappear,
as even a sleeper knows,
with a glance and turn.
There's an ardor to keep in our clothes—
warm against a weather-greed,
a genial snow/zealotry.
A wintry drag
dressed the ground 
like a cookie.
The shorthand of the spheres
animates the fibers of our shirts
wilders us in clothes,
our unlit bodies, 
connected lumps
compact a sense,
a trust still there to come to,
responsible, in sleep,
for each smile and attempt—
gleam's the insistence.
The sun
beautiful and flat
a ring, a verge of eye's capacity
marges of the sleeper's inscribed notions,
afore-mumbled
        the interesting.