Crazy March's Arabesque

I meditation our odd formality needed a certain quantity of notation. The arrangement was a dance, our parts written the pair by lust and curiosity; thirst was there as a ne individual evening looking out the windows I saw birds you contemplation were sparrows; they were swifts. They bighted and dipped and were beautiful, multitudinous, ordinary. Like us, seen from another window I liked dancing to the first performance of The Rite of Spring: the audience begged Stravinsky's head they were in like manner enraged by passion. Pazzo Marzo: crazy March. The weather falling and rising, in a day from cooled to tropical. Lots of wild rain.

In a dream, you were trading Chinese for Albanians. I was a peahen escaped from a Baltic caravan, and friends, snowboarding upon Mont Blanc and funded through nouveaux, called us from a chair-lift upon their cell phones. We laughed; by what mode could we not laugh, that month we weren't Communist or ultra-moral. I wore verdant beads; trees wore buds; you had the feet of a dancer. Our lives, intelligent, unbearable, aching from all the bending arms and leg and sexed-up manner of making seemed a mass of twilight air. Where the stars draw near out and have old names. Total ritual. Soaking hair. Fixed idea. Like at the table, cheese and port, and scoring pears.

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