however mother the morning always from the mind, how every glamour
misrecords the ripening with munitions, first to do the work of others,
however our colleagues arpeggiate the palace we have always loved
into hexagons or filaments or excesses of nurture and aggregate,
so much more we hold with our addiction to letters r, p, q and s,
here among the dahlias in costume of the lovers, quiddity
so much more the world to be done wide, heart, because a three-legged
dog named zelda chases his tail happy down hawaiian beaches, the desert
accelerates, it pours itself sepia over our secrets; because to rely
increasingly on metaphors of deliberation, because the ornaments
are stripped from the victorian mansions, compiled in architecture
for the sunday rabbit, the forlorn and the poor, and the rustling ships
are broken somehow away and the dahlia are a discoloration of song
to fall our palms over and with our fingertips sweep the hair away
from the temples and arable land and sweep the water away, wreckage
of the aral sea, tender that has not decided upon itself, upon smooth
light through the clerestory from early findings: stockings for very long
wet legs in which the harbingers and we do not altogether disappear.
