ReRites ( Until the rocks had gone) [June 2017]

Even if you would not be born, I knew before I saw you, your eyes wet with the morning, that your existence would break me. O where is the Region, the maker of power, the keen stag, woken procession, lee-lang sky? It is the hour that looks at the grave, Looks at all the fossils that glimpse the sea. And the bright spring beyond them, And the luxury of the manifest Steady end of head where hill sings. Hurtling out, the bliss Rippled leaking Lurid procession Broke the shifting Nets of riparian Ore into winged Ancient sizzle THE FLOWERS? Muttering about pathological counting drawn on a wall of hell. Unbuttoning the cold, black stare Of butter working thru newsprint. Closing 1962 A tree walks. A patch of smoke crabs the cold hovering sky. The light comes back to us: wearing marches. One pet pang of the life landed by the light changed our way, believe me. Everything perished. Wind Carried swelled dizziness Past the sun to the corpses! Walls with curling grace gleamed. Gnats lay down and waited in the sweet, twilight jam, Until the rocks had gone.