…and even with a whisper,
revive my depths,
turn me like a veil,
face down
in the
grass
falling asleep,
with
the
feet in the sky to be born -- maybe,
maybe
something will stick to my soles,
growing arms from the rain,
flying among the clouds

but what are the depths?
other than the
unheard
pulse,
the
untouched
breath,
palms-braided-in-roots,
­the flower withered
because of a kiss,
the
leaves
blown by the wind,
dew fallen on
crosses,

but what are the depths?
than frankincense, - the place where
rivers never dry,
the place where  rivers run away from us towards
forghetfulness
of oblivion…

towards
forghetfulness
of oblivion…
stir up my depths,
…and even with a whisper,
stir up my depths,
turn my
face down to earth,
hopefully
i can lose my steps in the sky-- maybe,
maybe
            something will stick to my soles,

in the sky maybe,
                                   maybe
something will stick to my soles

a croissant tastes the same flying over the Alps
sweat is sweat no matter what tram you take, it's so humane
on a tshirt from Asia a capitalist mind has written "Hit me hard and soft"  
let's heat the hit
clouds are dreamed of beneath the trees  
a young man takes a photo of an old woman having breakfast sur la Cote d'Azur
yeah, something hits me hard,  a contrast so sharp
black and white infuse  the blueness of air
the blackness of misery,  the whiteness of glamour

I'd better guard  the sea not to throw her abyss into my mind

I share a narrow window with the seagulls
I don't know if for them air is a magic fluid
for me it is a canvas waiting to be filled
the coal of time is burning our breath
away

Be have do
say
go get
make know think
take see
come want
look use find
give
tell work call
try ask need
feel
become
leave put
mean keep
let begin seem
help talk turn
start
show hear
play run move
like live believe hold
bring
happen
write sit stand

Here is where unfurling functions best,
Bolts of calico and honest to God purple
Velvet skirted Dine' lady, noble mejor, she

With her Zuni concho belt and squash blossom
Pendant perhaps honoring the blossom, per se

Doubt free, this is us, joined at the verbs,
Linked like fibers in a thread twisted for years,
Followed back, through lists of favorite things,

Inevitably the original grammar **** returns, with a
Vision, made plain as day, once, nations are made of
Us, we the people who use these living words to make

Peace, where none has been, in living memory,
But we pray today, any way, we expect yes, let peace

Reign locally, the whole world gets the idea and
Trumps the fool at the table betting truth is not God.

Sub-rosa, eh, a rose is a rose, Gertrude told me.
The Lie, that all men are not liars, is oft sold little thinkers,
And that is the truth each tells itself, we are chosen ones.