i:she they
move, and through, more
coming, and coming upon
my meaning
strewn around the hedges and blasts
of fire the inky blackness swells
petulant
teeming with an unlife
gripping and moving, all in one surrounding
my eyes reverse their flow, and
bring with them something more of
the dawn, more of the whiteness
she says, and i hear, never to
turn my head, but keeping the ambiguity
at bay, revel in it. this is something to be
called forth, but the sentences were
frozen, knotted, and the vapors had
left for the summer, packing their suitcases
obligingly. perhaps it is, or maybe not
the words spring up
unbidden, but
topple, like unholy generals, marshalling
hordes of meaningless shapes
around a maypole of darkened ribbons and
plumes of war, the sonnet’s lost, my darling.
vaguely desireless, washed
and fallen into the portal of his ambition
more the whispers, the eyes turn again
in a rhythm of self-consciousness,
fumbling with feelings well-acquainted with
the time, and the textured walls–
stop. the names, they, more the names
and if spring metal soon flowers of foil
crush, and crush, and songs, always
the music. words, penniless creatures
assault visions, but only some
can truly be esteemed and bidden; the
rest–so much for them. line five, scene
fifteen thousand and nine, what is the
scratching of a poet but more tyrannous
sniffle-minded bombast, the fists of
his eyes knowing, possessing, but only
ekeing seven times less than
the calculated gait. they reach, they
long, grasping for the exalting church
bell spires ringing out hymns of simple
skies and blue more the wings of Sunday
mornings and everlasting risen on the tiptoes
and leaping smiles of the sun in full bloom
so much, so much to see, and to say
the heart surfeits to contain it all, and
needs another–even the reeling must
know whether his hands should
fingertips must, palms upward knowing
the air’s demeanor
but maybe contention swirls, streetlights
and the winter chill of doubts swirl among
his lips and then, the bells toll
again. is liberty something that the sheets
hold, or the curtains swung wide, draperies
framing the tapestry of leaves,
simply. celebrate, my love, for newness never
should follow a more deserving grace as yours.
and the roughing turns again among itself, its
own life.