Saturday, October 9, 2010


Oh Gosh! my disembarked soul  is sad
a merriment of untouchable wayworthness
I tell you the gleaming cyclopean eye
is a mirrored aeolipile among
                         green hills
where everything struggles
                                      against the ought
of our desert
for the spring
of its quickness
remains fresh, the beggar's bush
                  stands radiant over the cove
the chap
her there
him there
the hero

this whole great boat on wheels
the way these bricks are painted in the sun
by magpie hands

a ball can slide
in a bowl