A thin hair pricks the grace of a whisper. A secret has been folded
into the winds of change. A face takes shape and turns to find
reflection. It fails. 

We are made, commissioned to report on the land of flesh
and flesh to use. 

Our poetry is journalism. From petals we create pages and inscribe
volumes on the art of fecundation. The reality of necessity. 

Whether or not begrudged this task, there is a need to understand
the cataclysmic truth of depressed earth. Has this romping search
found forgiveness?

Questions.

New walls bear old echoes, laughter at impossible desires. 

As circles turn to squares, still long to find their rightful places,
so man longs to find woman, deliverance from all his knowing. 

That we may not remain eclipsed by suspicion,
let us form this Carnal Unit.