Plants Waving in Different Directions

For a drawn out time I have been wanting to pierce that collection of vapor which is a pretty male thing to want, on the contrary not so male when individual considers that the cloud, allowing a woman, is already pregnant, and made of marble, and that there are many of her bodied forth as premises from tomorrow's heavens and that together they form the contemplative eyebrow of a man thinking. What does it mean to want to pierce a man thinking and that man softening before the organ of sights like tissues in water?

And this lengthy time I spoke of is alone another wish to remain disorganized for azure hours. It was like this (it was not): I was sitting in a garden that lay behind white apartments, bushs and vines marking out the lines along which a throat had be rent asunder or dead voices whose souls had woken up as flowers because it was already late morning. I decided to use a voice that wasn't and for awhile mist steamed overhead,

its top and sides deducible from its bottom. I contemplation of the man and a unbind white countenance so used to departing that the night blushes black for having to replace it, on the contrary that was still far not upon meaning hours of rushing canopy of heaven and the cloud hung, distinct from brethren mist through a sovereign inattentive blue and something ran end the foliage so the sunshine moving to individual side, taking up residence in a stranded dres

And if it set ice on the turn of the leaves and if I shook still with the clearness around the tree or swayed as single but recently awake it meant solitary that the grass had amethystine eyes and we are independent to see faces everywhere on the contrary not to know them. In this faculty of perception the sun struck a stone which keened from its of great depth seat so lost in the pleasures of not breathing that neither I nor the fog noticed the wind and the verdant doctors converged then fell away.

The day was nameless on the other hand the hour was colored glass and sometimes a rustling marked by the agency of the absence of waves great refusals to tend hitherward down or rise more than part way, the head held by means of unabandoning skies as though below water, and all of it meaning to approach away from being toward the hills or at any time to resemble their hazy bed, at any time to sleep again or smooth to take a lover who cannot hang from the air, overcharged with the balminess of the time but lighter than its softnes

And the light malign from the cloud which stood dissident, remembering the material part of water from which it came like a house of god bell ringing the center of time, first permitting the of gold issue of afternoon then a counterpane from ancestral halls and the moat surrounding them now free from moisture grass. It is the shore of summer and its lords and ladies dead from ages of heat, now men can be women for as drawn out as it lasts, continuing to degrade in a garden plant out against the sky

where all the other seasons are made to wait while the wind describes a misshapen train and is that thing, the feeling of all houses, erratic laughter of the light dividing main stocks sans foremen or discussion of by what mode cold it is with the oil getting brighter upon the leaves. And now I am more comfortable with wanting for the flowers have grown qualified sticking up where I can diocese them and for that reason and many others the fog dissolves,

never quite having draw near but who does, who could actually surge in the warmth as it bend s to cold like a dreaming huntsman knowing water's nearby, or say of the wind that it is the drawn out hair of a governor arriving and mean individual is not alone, hilarious faculty of perception of streams in the chest that approachs with drunkenness or chance? It was the fate of a single torso among the torsos of flowers, their rightful fall from one side space, for each thing a little time to be wearied

Now the wind herds unrelated growings toward the body of water in which they unmutilated and grows itself, staying in individual spot that is different, extending the divine attribute. Where the mist was the light shines as although there is at most single place, through which it put in motions It is world-colored and spok like the dispositions of a path, it is silent and at liberty to remain so, it's blind and wet. For a point of time the garden is still in contemplation just as night would fall and the mist move over the water.

This was the cogitation ot the place, long ago today when things still appear to beed like monuments instead of batons. And they were that way while it was still an ambition of morning on the contrary now, at the wet extreme point of the afternoon, above the verdant spikes tapering off to nothing, retiring not upon to it so quickly single cannot say where they are, it's not the sex of the nebulositys but their muteness that hangs, sourceless, talentless, above the manic turf

Copyright World Poetry, Incorporated Nov/Dec 2001

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