A fountain two fountains in the sunlight
and there behind me from over my left shoulder the glaucous eye of the Moon. It does not look at what I look at peering over my shoulder but raises its fogged eye swimming in blue raises it to some higher purpose. Old Moon, blind seer that you perhaps are, what do you divine out beyond this celestial sphere of green abundance the muddy earth and living rock of this world which is and is not our world? O, Fountain! O, Moon!
Meanwhile, small, insignificant thing wandering the folds of my denim trousers joyous is the day when we stop to smell the flowers, but there are certain eyes such as those of the canis lupus all compacted at the brow thus giving birth to a purer center signifying whose the hunter and whose the hunted.
There would be scarcely time enough to crush the rest of those rose petals and rub them into the burnt umber made velvet by distance, a smear, if you will, as if with the thumb to quieten a clarity which is too clear, too purposeful in an altogether tentative atmosphere melding with your flesh and your sentiment in such a way as to suggest
too much clarity, such as the eyes trekking through the pleated dark of the pine-wood forest, not fierce but nearly blank but for a single purpose, but too much clearness would also be too much sentiment, fussy while also displaying accomplishment thus inviting the spontaneous act and the negation -- Love and nebulas have been born of less.
and there behind me from over my left shoulder the glaucous eye of the Moon. It does not look at what I look at peering over my shoulder but raises its fogged eye swimming in blue raises it to some higher purpose. Old Moon, blind seer that you perhaps are, what do you divine out beyond this celestial sphere of green abundance the muddy earth and living rock of this world which is and is not our world? O, Fountain! O, Moon!
Meanwhile, small, insignificant thing wandering the folds of my denim trousers joyous is the day when we stop to smell the flowers, but there are certain eyes such as those of the canis lupus all compacted at the brow thus giving birth to a purer center signifying whose the hunter and whose the hunted.
There would be scarcely time enough to crush the rest of those rose petals and rub them into the burnt umber made velvet by distance, a smear, if you will, as if with the thumb to quieten a clarity which is too clear, too purposeful in an altogether tentative atmosphere melding with your flesh and your sentiment in such a way as to suggest
too much clarity, such as the eyes trekking through the pleated dark of the pine-wood forest, not fierce but nearly blank but for a single purpose, but too much clearness would also be too much sentiment, fussy while also displaying accomplishment thus inviting the spontaneous act and the negation -- Love and nebulas have been born of less.
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