In trying to find us, muse or ruse, if to walk a thin
line. Morning came rushing in. Rain was a flood. Ploughing was necessary. 2 oxen
for salvation. A mule for baptism. Old time country, New World pains, to sit at
a meeting—with walking to and fro. Such legit craft, such a mean location, with
dice rolling snake eyes. Never understood how we adore, how we love, with so
much to win; a tender anguish, an outlandish rule, a web to hearts—holding on
to myths, fabricating fantasy, if to feel life. To see signs of us, to dispute
those signs, to fret a piece of another man’s dynasty—
like roses are immortal, like precious understanding,
to have met so many of us. So thin its line, so close its memories, looking at
her, unspoken tension, our war becoming psychical.
Gallicas in season, tulips said low, zinnias at a gate—fences,
flame, swords: “Are you hungry?”
Many lenses, internal binoculars, at moments, a
ventriloquist—fate of the division.
Most uncanny occurrence—most understandable cosmos,
most tragic what we see.
