CENTO OR MY DAY BARBARA GUEST

what appears to be cobbles to the center where the rock is uncut desolate as the name we must never pronounce light less curious now we will watch the shadowless birdwing refusing wings blossoms falling repeatedly tree to wounded tree stanza to mute stanza houses, the ones we pass by twenty volumes of farmland thick daffodils clicking twenty times because they like to repeat themselves there are many types of waves they all fall differently will they survive the dolphins flight the sun color as its leaving repeats its birdsong on the cusp and knowing it the burning trees will reassemble themselves peak to golden peak

he wished those books were thornier adios to the surgeons to those men of culture who would have you choose between good and evil altar-wise in their coats of paint mountains with their dark and quiet warm as death or in memory of it drawing a blank permits one to sleep for a minute or so when nothing is apparent in your mind I wouldn't mind I wouldn't object to with this black nervous people who cannot manufacture enough air dense as telephone voice humming down the line what glee what ghoulish joyousness the rituals have been observed pottery rattling like candlesticks stronger than rain's grey egoism shifting the iris collapsing not hive but swarm aphid sonnets feeding on my toe Tibet with Monaco thrown in for measure the voices go away for lunch a desk mocks and beckons to effect a change where the ripe dawn hurries let me plead for your brownness to remain are not buildings completed before works of art break off we have a right to autumn steam never lessens its latitude in the sky we find bicycles natural pure, yet feeble this river behaves perfectly reasonably within the city's limits the unreasonable river that both gladdens and disturbs her heart the limits of its angst the unappetizing swell of the muddy river could appeal only to the truly desperate the heavens strike hard on prairies the sickening passages from Longfellow stinking up the night the erotics of root cellars musing the margins drawers of the dream look at that gutter, so muddy

we advance beyond
an expectation of number
in bodies that swim at the last moment