Monday, April 3, 2017


the album of gentle waves, isobel
left in the woods and what should
she discover there but a witch? i
recommended a house, but there is
never enough time--when it's been

divided, like the sky--to foresee
banal eventualities such as death
and this is the macrocosm.. teach
me, instead, a professional lyric
that'll not return unto him void:

the kindness of regeneration, and
the literature of exhaustion, and
the love of everything other than
oneself up to and including yours
which is in mine that hands hold;

sharpening images compare the yet
and heretofore stolid immalleable
with the everpliant and complaint
that make up the sum of comedy: a
nation needs azalean refreshments

like water needs roots, and there
was formerly blood on the leaves,
sap within the medulla of angelic
potentialities which could become
turned-inside-out for the benefit

of gracious personages and which-
ever principles they set forth: i
let ourselves be anewened, awake,
o sustain of velocity and sweeten
the sickness comforting the poor.

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