.




























                "I love you."



                "If only it were that simple."
























.

.




















































" your poetry *****.

it's like you're trying not to make sense on purpose."














































.

some girls are like
the uncoming together
of deep mountains

(there are where

occaissionly it's been


flowers.          ) their hips



that part

at the parting

of boy ribs—




.

Summer, it's been how long – uoy neeb, Summer? since
last time
i was inside you,

Summer.how
long low dry
in your intense
dull fragrance
,Summer , has

there been the
tranquil riven
deepening purple
of very supple
twilight,                               Summer?

the hair you are is very shining
between the creased heaving
of your ******* Summer; it
droops a slow slung leaving

of breath

of breathe/breathing.


Summer i can't do you think there are and how many nights inside you
their quick quick hands between the course prickle of wincing darkness
shingled with the tiny digging of pale spades?

(i do not know)

i will live occasionally until there are no more nights inside you
and i, cloaked in the able dirt of dying earth, the moist splinter of my body

quick   quicker

than any night passed inside you since the last time i was

and longer


longer



than

the low the low low

black blackness

of steep steep steep dark.

wut

   wut've u beeen?weight, wait


waitin 4 u been(the mouth

(the hair the

    fingers)(inside the


)tuchin the touching
inside you the
way quick quivers
jostle in your wet wet?)

U been waiting for hands(4hands
)on your neck in your mouth

in your mouth's been waiting
4 sum fingers

4 sum lick spit fingers
(your mouth:

sum wut's

been

weighting

4 sum.    Wut?

felt, have you ever,
a world without fingers
,grooves,
or
edges of roughness?

it does not feel of anything
expect feeling more deeply
than hands ever have been.

Coming at the backs of your
eyes with peculiar easy intense
banding of unbroken shades
of light, it does not emit
a single colour instead
it fills with brief singular
tingling of being

a texture more wordless
in words uneasy to say
a poem of trite inevitable singing.

Is, the definitive
not me when
whose hands(?
)are these
in my hands, Spring?(the grass)

and trees occasionally
mirror the always of
my body as dirt;
there won't be
a day when. I or i shall

go amongst the chansons
of lilies the dilute spell of
life mysteriously. a flense

of an ember parted on
on the parting of a blade
of green and waxy earth

gardens will where gods
do not go and grow
more deep than worms

into each body their roots
as hard as soft as
and light might apparently
become a mote

of your wrists will
pass into the lips
of other lovers

a very tiny song.