no

the greatest slope
along the smallest angling space
a name calling through a crowd
tracks a quickening walkawayfromthere
a slicingpast escape
no backward glance
no inbetween
strains towards a flat pure line
towards the desert of an ought
a knot
like syrup sliding down a sticky knife of prayers
for no more solitudes alreadyintertwined
and trying not to hear
until
the warmsoftglow of/light
that bears the humofvoices chasing through each private whitewalled night
intrusive parsings over third-eyed-tends and permutations
scraping steps across the rocks
a cross
a loss
a fight
inside ergodic loopsofself shoved fast against a bloodblack stop
and then the wait within the thickdarknight
along a sacrificial lean towards the archer and a sight
a glance resolved against the means to its implore
each mirrored move of expectations wiped away
until a voice
a backoftheneck moist warm breath
hand pressed hard against the skin
a silverchip deposit
and the cold gripped hope
of each smoothcleanspaceoftwentyfour
drips the counting silent night of flight
between the arrow taken up at any point
for any other
and the coin-hide slide
down the seam inside the pocket of a pride dispersed

"...though they are also first-rate evidence
as to the wisdom of its purpose. They strike home at only
a few, while they ought to strike home at everybody --
and even these few are not struck with the force with
which the philosopher and artist launch their shot."
(D&G, ATP)