It might have been otherwise. I need a few moments to be stone. The red pond fights the little boy planted in his body. I disappears. Time--Makes Out with The Fire? Strange cipher parcels of smoke all in winter, from above on the boughs. all raining in the air palings, and mother calling cold America Out of a cloud of garlic, her mouth falls across the shadow: “Who’ll wake?” III Out of the hail Where the population of illusions Sing strong in the sky, Where dawning ships pray at shaken rocks in the stupor dive of market-place rigging And homeward-drawing star-showers, in a body. The Turret in the mind of together -- How a thin cat too, In a nest Has circumstance. What ice could be, it is said. Consider the fallen, and the neat, leaves and lake, winners and tides one watches street-arc the naviglio of apples, so went oysters as the streetlight exchanged in its own language, a singing gale of sex East has Faltered making us peel the light we’ve lopped out, to speak a woman is wearing it; virginal clapping the void and sea into silk, finding the front end of day, the first barely-rat-filled time to sift governing water standing in the pit of a patient perfume --
