the wind is something
alive in my hand
and i look
thinking:
whose?

me,maybe?

after all i am occasionally myself.

the world is alive
and i think
who knows?

is death,
maybe and
perhaps but
always nothingly

arrives somethingly
between the pressed hips of Rose Buds:
a little song.

              (and why not?)

because aren’t pretty girls after all,

their own voice which
breaks over ilia

the only alive
which a pond is .

(and let me tell you i have been inside the neatness and warmth of pond and spring where the fronds extend between cloves of sunlight there was many pretty girls between the thigh and hip bone up to the knee in bracken smelling of some cheap summmer wine)

i love you
being the leg beneath mine
,my wife
who is
beautiful
and feels warmly
something softness which
i love to feel
.



.




.









,

i will be A Poem someday,
(or will i)?
being some earth
maYbe or (whynot)
a worm, and who
will remember nothing
of being what
i WAS NOT being
(apoem?)
someday when i
was, and will U
be there 2? i
wonder laying next to my wife.

my daughter moves
there is something
shakes moving
rattles a bit
falling she
does
into sleep
something
small(smaller)
than all smallness
her tiny aspect is
warm and i think
Very perfectly small
and smaller than all
warmness. i fold the
several things of my
arms around her smallness

and


she


s

    L



    e



                      p




                                     s.
                                       ,


                                       .

i love you constantly
that you are my Wife
(and my Children also)

,and both my body and my lips

(i want to kiss you constantly)

your sweetness and your smile
and the smell off of your hair
and light sparkle of your eyes
and the very correct angle of your nose.

i love you always, that you are.

And that is no little thing
i think because
i love also the Spring,
our children,
the direct sheen of moonlight
on pale snow,
and always your constant hips.

i love them,
and not least,
but most;

for you are my wife:
always something,
easily eternal.

and I love you,

as nothing which is eternal
is not you;
nor the gate of your walk,
or the folding inwardness
warmth of your
creaseless thighs.

i want only to love you
for all my days and nights—
and when they are done;
spent of laughter and tears,
i will rest easily in the ceaseless
crook of your sea.   .    .

who are we that we have been?

(I do not know.)

Nor have i or been,
or when and if,
and where?

perhaps if,
And I do not Know,
had i been
then i might,
being but little and a small nothing
(far from everything)
and walked.

but,
Not Knowing,
i wonder.