Lord, Summer destroys the poem
Summer makes. I am at war with ideas.
History is a history of madness and is without
poetry. Power destroys Summer.
Transcendence is inevitable and gives Summer
murder and meaning.
The oak scrapes hash marks on the brick.
Owl glides, goes silver and dark.
The bullfrog head inflates: clock, terrible song.
Walk on the water while it is dark.
Give into the heart as it wishes.
Tear and toss bread, leftover wands.
It is at end of evening.
Give god each cloud. Rented surface,
is missing. Truth butterflies and flocks.
Floods. Drinks animals. Nothing more.
We mean to bless with something.
There is water, see what fools of the dove we are.
Transcendence is buoyant and gives the flower a gossamer sheen.
Why we are favored in the Madhouse.
A picture is all I have. All I have ever wanted to give, lord.
The trees, diminishing: a tunnel & archway.
The leaves I trample, lord, are not mail, stained scarlet, soaked cool in lime light.
Mail & nothing. I walk. There is a child. There is a man.
Lord, I prefer the child smoothing over the cracked leaves, carrying home color on his shoes.
Bringing a prayer to you, 2 or 3 words. Pilot flame snuffed out in his hands.
Small hands that are yours, lord. Black, indecipherable, magnificent things.
That are yours. Everywhere I turn. Everywhere I turn is a detour from the soul.
The soul, a detour from the self, lord.
The rain falling there is slow & terrific. 9 or 10 times I have observed this.
The boy you made, lord, loves the rain, cool as cloth on the face.
Loves thinking of the leaves comforted. Worthy, then, of being in their presence.
The boy draws a diagram of when it opened. Fast leaves. Intersected lines, lord, of course.
He is a dot. He is a scent. Compresses it. The way to you when he forgets it.
See how he has drawn you as a crown, lord. In purple because the gold is gone.
See how much he wants you. The gate to the heart swings on its hinge. He spits on it,
with affection, so it will not squeak when he touches it.