In indiscrete indiscretion in endings Is setting for closure a little ajar But hid in the smidge is the edge Of defining the focus on fewness And counting to none. If it's to keep incomplete in pretending So letting the lower expose from afar Then wed to the dead is the dread Of expiring the omens of onus And drowning the sun. Whish with a hiss is the kiss Of description that sits in the mist Spitting up from the lakebed That's running as hot as it's night in the sky. Swish with ellipse is the bliss Of intention that drifts on the rifts Splitting up from the lateness That's stunning as where we don't go when we die.