The Entry and The Middle in its Hole (Anne Marie Rooney)

When it is right to sing, or when is it right. I can say small
Arrows approach the ring but this is no welting marriage. 
His narrow angle encroaching; how harrowing, and yet.
There is a soft give that I want to enter. As a contest increases
The odds I want to be splendid in that borrowed ether. Morning
Goes, Get with the program. Evening goes, You've worn me well,
Now git. Which leaves the body in the middle of its ending; foot,
Roots, diddling finger. For him there is one more heel on which
To linger: O apostrophe, it, meaning, he, is me, meaning his. We
Tangle, two pilings on the wrong side of welded. Once our night
Held the tide from its crash. We still hold somethings sometimes.