sábado, 19 de dezembro de 2009

souls are high kites with holes, the sky is like a crystal ball

Blue sky harrow:
How lost for adjectives
Are we
To break our fast up there
Sugar, tea, and birdsong?

Of course, kites, souls
Curiosities, wind being free
While we, ground strung Gullivers
Flat beneath the
Colossal eye

We're watchers
Of the wolcen burnspot
Pupil paling
West, always

What do I call myself?
My sex deliquesced
An epicene, I'm a lover of honey bees
And toadstools

With plume
For tongue,
A curling fern:
We slip around like
Chartreuse chimera
In Lilliput ponds.

We dive in as
The tadpoles stop
To blend
At the empty
Of an underwater statue-

Arms like levers:
Blackening the coats
And peeling back
Crystal tortoise-shells;
Stripping time of
Itself –

We see the sky
Where it is skyless;
It remains an opal;
Patternless and

A sunken
In the bowl
Of your

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