Poised. Rich curtains are hushed.
under gold of streetlamp and furtive glance.
At dawn. Levitation is like that. And
overflow floods great tendrils of roof, because the entire
garden is a plane of moonlight. Glow, look. Listen.
The wind of harnessed beach, reveal the broken covers shining.
And passages in the sand of its garden of the rock. Something,
I know we must never forget.
The voice of a flute which them shades flees with hushed.
Under streetlamps, gold and obscure glances of the tiger to its claws.
Not knowing in the rising of the day that they had just destroyed someone.
Overflow in the large roofs, resembles itself as the complete garden to the moon,
a loom of gold, more preciously
the color of pink—its mouth in the darkness.
Beach wind swirls, reveals
glittering broken shells.
And you walk in the sand of your rock garden.
Something, I know, that you miss.
The sheets are greener in the mean of the summer.
Hot air and misty total which hangs lighting in the voice of a furrow.
Curtains flee, free with a melody which hushes. Under
a gold of the streetlamp,
the rising of the day.
resemble that complete garden in the moonlight,
the gilded moon and the sea-bream.
The wind of the tamarind beach, reveals.
And not in the sand of its garden of the rock.
Something, I know,
the wind of the beach semolina, growls.
And you remember your walks in the sand
in the garden of the rock.
The voice of a flute...
the shadows resonant with
Gold and dark tiger
high on great rooftops.
It seems like
the whole garden is moon,
round as the pink
of your mouth in the dark.
Somewhere/ in Space, I Hang Suspended, in
Mute Accordance with Rules Promulgated
by the Sâr Pélandan
AP—Weary residents of sandbagged cities came together in churches
on Sunday, counting their blessings that the Red River had stopped rising
and praying ferociously that the levees would continue to hold back its wrath.
Floating, drifting, doing the backstroke, in harmony
with many, or most of the personified elements of space,
hope, and charity that pervade much of the now-colonized
Polynesia. Participatory-anticipatory-spirit, or La mer lubrique,
as Alexis Saint-Léger would say. Submersion! soumission!
Oui, oui, I/ acquiesce. The waves/ lick the nape of my neck.
I dissociate. I lock my door upon myself, I comb my hair,
I pop my popcorn, & it makes a lovely glow, like the flame
of green fire among the flora of the reef. And
there are galaxies ‘neath my tresses. Insouciant, full-bodied.
Thus, my soul, alone, as if enclosed in mousse and silence,
entire to its own interior spectacle. Une urne de cendres
pourrait un jour tomber du ciel et pourrait faire flamber la terre
et bouillir les océans.
There are suns/ and seas beneath the
Green Frog café, a wind is rising, and the river flows, orbiting,
mimicking the ebb and flow of Europa, Ganymede and Io, like
a/ rotating ring of fire, flotsam and jetsam, slow combustion,
antediluvian, Mesozoic, and sulphur scenting that gr-r-r-rand
horizon of wind, silk, and honey.
La pluie salée nous vient
encore de haute mer. Sam
the Sham: uno, duo, treize (here,
make a Q mouth), BENK. BANK,
BONK. Megantic, fare thee/well.