with splendor of the courage to
avail a friend to die and resurrect; since unbolted, out of the womb, i’ve been
gunning and leaping and cringing. we find form in a formless universe, baptized
in weather, the seasons coming with vigor and ages—remaining guileless, in a naïve
state, such filth in trying and lying about being guileless; each deeper
contempt as held beneath breath, each omission, each time a person is lead to
believe a fib—indeed, so guileless, such a heap of heaven, the deeper the cup,
the more the unclarity. aside a sandy spider, the damn roadmap, into a bind,
into the days, flayed asunder and rebaptized; the condition of the wound,
gauging the nightingales, adhering to silence, seated in utter selfhood, the
wilderness has a taste to it. clothed in humility, the strength of the
assurance, the uncertainty of the assurance—the contradiction, the paradox, the
problem in adoring the outer limits; looking like racing time, budding as if it
might become wings, so aborted—he grew out of invisibility. so much a warlord,
keeping in silence, so much a technique with its coldness—the purple tulip, the
dahlia on skies, the breathless daffodil—those browning eyes, palms like
perfection, the rounded infinity!
