A cornerstone. Marble pilings. Curbstones and brick.
I saw rooftops. The sun after a rain shower.
Liz, there are children in clumsy jackets. Cobblestones
and the sun now in a curbside pool.
I will call in an hour where you are sleeping. I’ve been walking
for 7 hrs on yr name day.
Dead, I am calling you now.
There are colonnades. Yellow wrappers in the square.
Just what you’d suspect: a market with flowers and matrons,
Beauty walks this world. It ages everything.
I am far and I am an animal and I am just another I-am poem,
a we-see poem, a they-love poem.
The green. All the different windows.
There is so much stone here. And grass. So beautiful each
translucent electric blade.
And the noise. Cheers folding into traffic. These things.
Things that have been already said many times:
leaf, zipper, sparrow, lintel, scarf, window shade.
I've spent my life in a lone mechanical whine, this combustion far off. How fathomless to be embedded in glacial ice, what piece of self hiding there. I am not sure about meaning but understand the wave. No more Novalis out loud. No Juan de la Cruz singing "I do not die to die." No solstice, midhaven, midi, nor twilight. No isn't it amazing, no none of that. To crow, to crown, to cry, to crumble. The trees the air warms into a bright something a bluish nothing into clicks and pops bursts and percussive runs. I come with my asymmetries, my untutored imagination. Heathenish, my homespun vision sponsored by the winter sky. Then someone said nether, someone whirr. And if I say the words will you know them? Is there world? Are they still calling it that?