What's wrong with this picture? Scads of lilies raised above the muck the scum floating on golden pond --sheer light-- on one a fat frog croaks-- Bhudda! Bhudda! to the weeds and sky eternally his eyes are old-fashioned key-holes-- under sticky webs lilies crimp-edged deep ceramic green pie-plates-- above each waves a streaked pink-white blossom held up by nothing save love and in that no sense of error ever
Such tenderness! turning the lamp red with a shell shade down to a darkness so complete I see the moon untouched stars beginning where the shadow of her hair no longer glows
To love--to that intimate measure alone my life, monklike is dedicated. How long has it been? Too long. No more long hairs stuck in the vacuum.
Especially because the blue ipod randomly zeroes in on our song, a Belle and Sebastian number, my tears roll hot and rainlike down the window as if outside a Florida hurricane continues, blurring all OLDER VERSION: Especially because the blue ipod randomly zeroes in on our song, a Belle and Sebastian number, my tears roll hot and rainlike down the window as if outside a Florida hurricane continues, blurring all
And so there is a lie a very damnable lie --so what!?--it's all one lie after another and then a muddy grave-- heavy boots of the mourners thick with grief-- while still a week later daisies grow right where her face had been
Look beyond these stick trees just past their thorny bramble see a jet investigates heaven pristine blue like the dome blown apart-- so blue with the one swollen chalky marr where human curiosity has so amply intruded
to Dan Weeks Two dogs mangy manes a-shake follow this river for frogs. First one then the other stops the friendly lips serious a moment, long black and still a line of fresh paint hastily applied below the snowcapped teeth. Ah! rings in the water declare something a few feet out. Is it? No matter--leap! The froth around them ecstatic! snapping! and then slow to drink . . . . They return poised to the riverbank as if they chased every raindrop. The river continues and they continue to follow it.
Brow of snow on the small hill melting Thoughts come and go shadows on the brow seasonless And sooner or later more sooner it will be summer And night and moonlight on the small hill whiten
there are the soggy remains of winter buckets tipped over and then lost to us this world in the first deep rush of snow that now, like an impossible sweat has returned to the moss & soil pores so that bloated the earth begins to relax sink down and decay