The wave came round
and Marianne and her nose. Bearing his shadow
combing in the grass,
she listened -- a little odd
the coup de dés a little odd the movement toward
a new equilibrium on green baize.
Far and away the most interesting place to visit.
What about independent wings? Oh, they’re smart
but not so young.
Which sounds or images are reproduced. I don’t care
I’d rather sink than call him. Not a straight
line.
Division of the cross of fat and felt. Everything I loved had the shape
of people around me. The astute calligraphers,
the hunters.
My body is upon my legs.
He rolls parallel to the edges.
And that which is the pith of his motion.
A snafu of the heart. Musica.
Sir, Sir!
I’ve got a spot for you -- I know a place that uncle makes.
Raisins dry on wicker trays, coke fires burn
in the foundry. Recalls the songs, the pure threshold --
To really see a sunset one must turn one’s back to it
and see the objects which it illuminates:
a tree its crown frozen out of sleep by a dark cloud
stretching its chemical chains toward
nuanced colors; the dragonfly, if you will.
A hard to get at feeling in the grass darkening
toward the enigma . . .
If there can be voiceless reverberation in me when stating it thus, as
a changeless quality of light holds its beautiful curve
going over into darkness. The summer firefly surges unto it.
City traffic.
Nothing to do but to hold on to it
as we feel it like we feel a departing
lover letting go. Every particular nuance as it relentlessly releases us,
and yet cleaves to us upon a brightening page. I speak of
future images.
But you there screwing up your face I’ll understand later
as a prelude to a smile.
This as you placed before me the crème brûlée
in its ceramic heart-shaped dish this evening at the café.
Such extravagance! you’ll say. This winter, there will be
ice skating. The crystal panel and its distant hills
will be flanked by swift borzoi. Hands warmly
nested in a muff of the softest ermine. It will be snowing.
It was snowing and will continue to snow, she said.
and Marianne and her nose. Bearing his shadow
combing in the grass,
she listened -- a little odd
the coup de dés a little odd the movement toward
a new equilibrium on green baize.
Far and away the most interesting place to visit.
What about independent wings? Oh, they’re smart
but not so young.
Which sounds or images are reproduced. I don’t care
I’d rather sink than call him. Not a straight
line.
Division of the cross of fat and felt. Everything I loved had the shape
of people around me. The astute calligraphers,
the hunters.
My body is upon my legs.
He rolls parallel to the edges.
And that which is the pith of his motion.
A snafu of the heart. Musica.
Sir, Sir!
I’ve got a spot for you -- I know a place that uncle makes.
Raisins dry on wicker trays, coke fires burn
in the foundry. Recalls the songs, the pure threshold --
To really see a sunset one must turn one’s back to it
and see the objects which it illuminates:
a tree its crown frozen out of sleep by a dark cloud
stretching its chemical chains toward
nuanced colors; the dragonfly, if you will.
A hard to get at feeling in the grass darkening
toward the enigma . . .
If there can be voiceless reverberation in me when stating it thus, as
a changeless quality of light holds its beautiful curve
going over into darkness. The summer firefly surges unto it.
City traffic.
Nothing to do but to hold on to it
as we feel it like we feel a departing
lover letting go. Every particular nuance as it relentlessly releases us,
and yet cleaves to us upon a brightening page. I speak of
future images.
But you there screwing up your face I’ll understand later
as a prelude to a smile.
This as you placed before me the crème brûlée
in its ceramic heart-shaped dish this evening at the café.
Such extravagance! you’ll say. This winter, there will be
ice skating. The crystal panel and its distant hills
will be flanked by swift borzoi. Hands warmly
nested in a muff of the softest ermine. It will be snowing.
It was snowing and will continue to snow, she said.
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