Mere existence the wing-to-tip of birds, mere brandy in the sun
air, crystalline abstracted wings for an old band
Great scutterings of the flutter-wings from the darkness
Here between her fingers no pasture
It is a novel without progress, a past without position
the modified great picture, here, the great picture reawakened
flagrant stabbing, more killing, the absence of desire, grabbing me
from the criticisms of companions
Cold dies waking water
inner-self in flight
beyond the brambles
no medical discipline here
the battlefield sound of adventure above
when my marine will call me in the chance night of song
who in buddhahood creeps through the grass
A scented sunday, with seeds in his mouth
and a gun for a kiss
This is the hurt that we do not kiss
being black on the page that we do not encounter bliss
sharp clicking of my eye in November
I drop all my lives from me
in a grave among dogs and chickens
A particular wooden bench that I came to know through
my lips, her lips, our reasons, our colors, our exceptions
colossal, a seemingly absurd path of sorrow
We are fools that mean nothing
with names worse than murder
I get to my place ten minutes early
when a young woman took me away.
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