But always alone, its nature a shadow,
the named instrument's sound, 'I am',
with its spreading field reduced by departure, a tergal loupiat,
forced into conversion, or conversation,
an ursuline beauceant
faced with the mange of dodenage
become a pisteur of self.
Now only the uniform of difference can utter
its song of fleet trance
the impetus cast off from the silken meld
the further loquis of its violent dance
and the questioning that follows, for its bare hand will rest
in the theater of days, a spadille
to give pause in the meetings which follow.
And there is no ending in judgement, the vignon
reveals its othering feurre
the beast which leaps from its roquelaure,
the epulie with its tooth-like head
and the inscription blends to ward
its covenant with the rivelette
the transfigured tassiot of the contemporary.
And as the lion hovers, so the dame,
the striking flame now hachard to the hanging gibralter,
its mitella disturbed
by the engulfing orchards,
its one remarkable tone,
an approach to variations upon a darkness,
its fury now beyond iconic spark,
and the whole hierarchy of being set off as a temporary enchantment,
a portrait of the loving word's salute.
This is what I found in looking
the displaced object of all quotationing
the rude limit of its boundaries
to steer an ornamental course through monumental shadows
the face of devotion lingering
over a legend of anonymous volumes
as the days return their helpless gaze
the outward expanse now migrates,
a doughboy on a virgouleuse
the bed surrounded by bannisters.
The place remains, its mustard under a chipped lid
the fanstastic ideal
now awkward with shimmering.
What can be said?
Is the miracle discourteous,
its wake all fame?
Will meandering cure this?
The journey is contention itself, reordering,
and in the primed remains of sky we sit,
"There is no final picture."