turn me off(in your body there is a switch
which
ignites the pale frame of flowers


                                     To bloom,

your voice is *** i had forgotten how
its the lips do make by their parting
the jerking of nerves to teem upon
the single tingling of its seamless singing.

(all rasped with **** and an after the show smoke i hate the smell but love the flavor of when it stops being near to farness and with imminent instantaneous kissing becomes

Spring, that whose every year is its last
and whose death always is the promise of its birth:

you pink between,

you softly to part,

you to come of flowers lathered,

you are a mystery.A cute curving mystery,
of slightly undeath.

a curt cutting mystery,
of increasing unhealth.

you're whose *** the mound of wreaking,
the confluence of hips,
and the pourn of roses, gardens.

what is if (does the who why) and?

me perhaps you perhaps the trees
(and thousands of them(i have seen)
and thousands more await
each day as grass of us
belched of cloven stuff foil'd
'bout the neatness of gravestones)

there is a garden
and i have been amongst who
the stems of it sleeps girls
in their skin awake;

in their skinny awake
on unsure knees
ushering

boysandgirls

to and fro

toandfro boys and girls

go into each other their lips and out comes the Earth.

our body the hands let's make between the reeds of deep rivers a widening of our soul and blood will come from their lips into shallow waters the distillation of flowers


                        so heavy with pollen


their heads bow so heavy with pollen their stems bend and meet with bloodandwater




                                     petals,



                                       .
                                         '



                               '



                                                   ;




                                    .

.































































­




                                                 ok Spring let's ****




























































­




.

it's hard the word i'm sorry and
the clouds today
are a bit
cut of light
draping easily with so("

     i,m sorry,,

the way i've notbeen
and haven't said)

the way i love you the way i love you the way i love you. i love

and the roughness of cotton,
the blithe softly flow,
snow and petal broken;

a stream instantly chaste
between the thighs of mountains
(your coming mouth
and how many times have i remembered
the hard droll moment of your intense clovers
parting through a sea of dark leaves
the slenderest gap of life to emit
its thrilling nonsense a gown of roses?)?

i do not or have wondered
on the cutting into the hillsides roads
when driving in Summer
and the sprightly children of dandelions
tumble daftly serene

And want to **** my timid notion
amongst the thorn'd stems of your garden
(where burying is easy
and death never came from the ground
and only life was grass, and flowers, and kissing

forever

                )))(