but the God of the morphologists is deeper than the God of the Theologians
-Nicolas of Cusa
Hie thee to the banquet of chestnuts, for the rabbit
knows not what it is, and golden chestnuts all perform
to the glory of a central light, and that light,
all deform.
Tender blithereens, when magnetic explosions grace
through green foam the weird skeletons of whirlwind flutes,
and murdered fruit, then, look for letters on the sea,
and larger than ships, these building letters, and totalism,
the castanettery of sea crows.
Orgy. And tin wads.
Grime how beauty turn to a two-face gem stool,
the white lead toad will open mouth to be a bed,
and on old stacks of books and bread, a cutlass wends
to the dyrty hyme, mile hyle misungenia, and
bile sweet as Spring, to a Winter dumb and silent,
Any storm cavort a stead (with heads the moment too brief).
I see their proud strong bodies
rejoice in air.
I feel the sun
longing toward
its galactic cave.
A female craving
is the wind.
(Who would undo this?)
