The Turning Road

beyond the purple hills
that is the perimeter of a bowl
a horse carries a koto along a turning road
in which a tunnel enters

several tall orange Plane trees
take up the clause of the light
the purple hills are a canopy
of interconnecting spires

near the edge of the turning road a
man in trousers carries a green vase which
is small but heavy (petit mais lourd)


trees rise up like steam
from the bowl
small is my lord,
who sits in the hidden
swimming pool,
an anchor upon his hat,

μικρή αλλά βαριά - awakening
all of sapience - the leisurer
finds an incline on which
to view those lovers

who stand beneath a spinning
green vase which hovers - will
it bloom - her lamentation the
laborer before them

there is one fiery tree
at the center, the cedar,
whose footfalls present a door
of white oak

her hands reach up
into the canopy, the cacophony,
of purple flames, the laborer
is huddling with a red bladder,
the snake-like inner path

the gondolier of horses
is burning red, his image
destroyed by the wall of the
turning road as his distance
progresses

he stands and guides,
as the charioteer, chairless

there is a distant black
stone railing among red trees, the
laborer takes down the koto
from the ferality, from the
hoarse, mad, colors

obey me, this bowl,
this depression before it,
chrompact, chronact, the
charioteer passes through
a golden hovering wig of fleas

which hang
from a lavender tusk

The turning road
is an anthro-terrain
the koto disappears
in a distant hole,
the lovers are crushed
into a verdant vase,
spinning faster and
faster, the feral
horse of color

labors
in the turning road
its mane explodes