the
pencil lies aside a pink eraser.
souls
are mingling, ambition in skies,
trees
echoing earth, and sakata bugs—
locusts,
fields menaced in minutes.
pride
dissipates. clocks move linearly.
the
lady feels like music,
more
to dilute rays, science, dance.
wires
wrap around serenity.
length
of worlds to learn to listen.
in
do care, made quickened, made
of
silhouettes.
more
ocean miles, seabirds afar,
storming
inside, hailing winds, at
deeper
points to fathom.
sunshine
into soulprints, whereat,
one
blossoms, one sprouts.
more
wheat with butter, most have
toasted
our existence.
as
curious cages, walking in fortress,
seeking
fortitude—blights to
wilderness,
crops ruined, starting
again.
birds
chirping, making melody,
resolved
to stop soon; by excellence,
by
nonerasable ink, by the paradox
of
passions, how they swerve,
pretending
to forget the poets.
at
the corner, sits a man, holding a
rickshaw;
like last days, impersonal
personalities,
contradicted by
paramystical
portals.
over
further, topaz feelings, needing
to
see, gather berries, fret kernel,
spice.
sour
fuchsia pains, eating at souls,
more
hoping inside, desiring a
lionkeeper—to
contain manic
madness—those
walking poets at
city
gates.
