The sewing machine had a sort of genius, high, oily and red
over that little hellionís pants. Joy and Pain crossing legs,
then coloring in the poverty—
Are we a blue, blue whine in the restive trees?
Are we under the imprecision?
The beginning endless, ending like chasing deer out of the yard,
sphere unto sphere it takes a loyal Enthusiast
Deathís mother. Stag on the meadow,
mare in the river,
unwinding green river wide rock for the resting.
The man and the woman liked to go there,
the warm hood of the car, a question under sky, a curve where the trees rustled.
A patch of brown hair on the white clapboard
where the deer tried to run off
scraping its side,
harsh light in the paint can,
the screen door until you
heard it click shut.
She placed the shell and the action figure beside one another.
Who is king, my queen, as many tongues as there are swords.
Gone to field, weeds sway, some places are still
semi-barbarous you can make a fire under the bridge and smoke.
A headless man knows
how you saw what the saw sawed,
and there is usually enough poetry
to pass out, the day is ongoing,
you can get more material there
a rough sleeping writ large.
I loved playing that hand harp, large face
coming to ask Who are you, Where is your precipice?
The pattern crying, the pins too many colors, surround, surround.
The pattern crying you be the master, Iíll be the life,
have I been in this T-shirt all day, did I sleep in it, first did I see it this morning.
Was that you bound in sun on the step, living the life of the seasons, and loving,
I am recalling nothing of the unloving of ourselves,
did you not foreshorten into pattern one thing from its happening,
where you are slowly dying in a city,
I am born in a town.
Middling in a hive
nothing is daring to move anymore.
Sticking our feet into a template of lakes,
it is endless, endless and endless a schizy feeling walking back into your world