to mix as mixing fingers do
that pleasant scape of cut and hue
could only be by perfect hand–
to spill the sky with food so grand;

for eyes to eat for ever more,
ere come the bleakness: acheron's shore,
where stood is there unlucky crowd
embrace'd of apple from knowledge boughed;

and the lark that fell for un-leaden branch
to stain from souls forever blanch
died to live–immortal make–
when each, our bodies, meet their break

shape that cuts
(girllike)
closely
shaven

with sweetness pressed
alone a little empty

needswants

filling to be

–inside–so mouth;;;

skin love,

hands dreaming on
pert curving of tiny
white white white

she she

"Can


             I


go down on you?"

Do is everything because becoming by the hands of our repeated selves
(or so i'm told by Nietzsche is a really ******* ******* that can't
Kant a **** thing about a thing-in-itself give one flying **** too
many after hours drinking way low into the bottom of some end
i–means–met by the dark absorbing linger of neon around sign
talk talk talking about how Nietzscher'd teach yer about a thing
made of its own ******* will "you **** me or what)"?

wet stoops
wet sleeps
down beside
vibrant hulks
of day into night becoming
a persimmon fleshed in robes
of sweetish musk of raging dark:

that blind canny o' comely marsh
where sweats tallly the brisk frigid
smirk of winter coming into between–

i cannot fathom
nor wonder 'pon a thing more
violent **** or primly stolen
than the absurd tumor of suddenly
which every immense second of life
Is.

and how do i call it?
how do i name it by itself?
is it nameable?
is demanded some strict finitude of immutable logic?
or is impossibly monikered in nothing short of illimitable self?

(and who have I been? have i been myself? where did i begin? and shall i ever end in knowing?)

dying is that a little girl x63
going into dust as from which
came her just sixty three years
ago not loved once within
them or met with the kind
smile of anyone but her old
little cat that just as her within
became as into dust like
(From which they were breathed)
that 63 years ago pile of used to be

the big old quiet of the electric house is somewhere around me humming incessantly with a heater .   a cat is which becomes smoothness neatly into
my lap folding upon whisker self of darting blackness the night outside
which compares with complains with rain through wind and trees my
window against and there is between it all the tiny miracle of a chime


                slowly    .

it's autumn i cannot believe how i am alive again
the trees are and the day
in bits of orange
recedes into dark
fathoms of unday,

i wish my hands held
your hands that like
god hold the making
of every little nice thing

and every little ugly thing
of making inside me though

               –i wish–

how suddenly fragile i was
when we were

even though
we never                        were

. It's autumn

and i cannot believe how


i am alive