ReRites (The quality of a cry) [July 2017]

We came large in the withered slaughter-house, Where some were ashes, others bread and verse. There the raven-winged hour, and the honeyed voices of the martyrs lit like volcanos, into shivering. Careenage I saw the Rocks, strengthened by one mysterious turn of fire. Hygiene, like dust And wax as glittering clock sea-spray. To spend darkness is to forgive the meaning of bodies I unhoard the whim lock grunting publicity of Love Confined to the field of flail the black peach sofas went from Jebusite Camp Durt of Alexandria! Moose! And somewhere, rudeness, dances, unyoked rags, drawn as if velvet, and fibers in sacks, murmuring on lips. I admired teeth, and craved a sign, any old blush, broken out Burciaga, baby, like bang! caroming round; beguil’d Gambrels Abramowitz prowl alien warm gag the house Enimie I erased the purest glory, in a whir of sorrow, without everyone. I was in my lower eclogue, spread home. I denied rapture to soothe the fog; and paced the dwellynge, Greeting a lullaby with noises of ageyn. Modest mentions me, an arrant in the makeup. Moving, touching that song, curlicue’s crumpled hunger. The quality of a cry, awake, rarifies her tools, -- a scarce requisite beseeching request. She fled to sunshine. Amid the couched Drubbed fern, and pleasure frostbit on the road. We heard this loneliness! We together. There are miles to go. I am anxious.