of some lost,
did you make?

And how
would you know?

(typed rapidly)

it will unpersist.

the rain and the earth
will eat it.

the skin will come off.

and all the night
WiLL SiNG.

out here you can be in the land.

The snow is gracefully
in the cool churned
and dark sky.

(you can breathe)

here where
only the smallness
of yourself
can be heard.

your hands will go into the soil.

there will,
over them,
come frost.

and a flower will brace
against chilled winds
its caving stem.

you can be here
and see the toil
of the earth in every
turning of its pail *******.

you can cup to your mouth
the ember of your breath
and pass into the frozen
limb of dead spring
the **** warmth of your lungs.

you are made here,
in the land,
where you can be.

and the toiling of your breast
will pass into livid creations
of quickly eaten, hot.

you will be made and unmade alike.

you will dream of the bodies of girls.

and you will sleep between
the snow of their thighs--
pocked of rose husk
and shattered frond.

you will limp
between the
clean pillars
of their hips,
and your hands
will find within
their riven dirt
the striving root
of life.

(you can be here in the land
cold something
stirring its
magnificent hair
shaking off
the sheath
of stirless
snow...  )

And your hands will become numb.
And your lips will become numb.

and you will fumble between
their dumbness.

and the whole of you will become numbness,

(stumbling)

into the bubbling
heat of
Spring's
arched

HEAP.

you make me the hour,
and thy body comes,
and i'twould hold it
that it comes,

i would sleep between
yer ******* and i would
clumsily depart myself

over the hearth of
thy neck

and i would
explain the terse,
awkward
flint
of my
wandering spark

through the rupt
and sweaten'd
valley of thy thighs.

i luv thee
the lady of
thy fair repose
and the sudor
of thy spilt
apple.

yor juice is canny,
it makes soul
over in its hands.

it describes me,
the lips within it,
and it is for my mouth--
fer'evor.

                                                

                                (               i luv thee lady,
                                                 so lay with me,
                                                 this day and night,
                                                 i might that
                                                 to luv thee
                                                 to shew thee
                                                 my luv                           )

where in this alone
which you are
thinking some
of empty

air air air
over the rolls
and fluxed
earth;

the soil
in whose body
hides each
small seed of the grass,

dispersed again
and again
in root, clover,
thresh, and tine;

there is only
air air air
here in this
alone where
your body
finds the
caved silence
and the sluiced
arrow of a flower;

(it is a hill)

there is a girl somewhere;
far and not far,
between the hollow
of her corded belly
and the curled
chamber of her lips.

she makes
(who is a maker)
that will not make.

alone alone alone
in the
air air air

(who thinks some of
empty hills
where no seed
of grass,
dispersed within soil,
lays the earth over in
teeming abundance).

only alone,
in the air,
where the earth
fluxed and rolls,
thinking some
of empty.

of a body
being 2
bodies:

you are my love.

the wifeblood
and the childheart—
beats within you,
and sumways,
being the hollow place
from where all life pours.

and if anything is sacred
your hips are sacred:
the cambered holsters
of my sleeping children.

you are brazier,
forward carried,
into largest darkness.

the light whose,
consumed nearly,
rages in the face
of blackness.

(i love you in the flesh of my palms;
their meat holding somewhat of your
glowing warmth.

i love you in the apple
of my closed chest;
opened only at
the brush of your laughter.)

My Wife,
being my hull,
and the body
of my 2 bodies,

I love you.

a word comes,
and do you know it?

have you perceived it much?

have you been within
the embrasure of its
flared walls?

or walked through its ensemble--
the robed meal of it,
the silken and profuse
excellence of its livid body?

a word is a vagrant.

it passes the lips,
and into the world

(roots, nettle, and tine)

becoming within each thing
it moves, the hulking arousal
of vibrant self.

or it is some inept smallness.

mumbled erstwise the flawed
****** of a dumb mouth.

it tumbles,
relaxes,
being the body
and the root of the body.

a word is the flesh,
and the kiss of a wife;
the small depression
of a child's heart,
pressed swiftly
between canale
and capillary
into perfuse
exhaustion
of running laughter.

a word is the foamed sea,
washed over each grain,
until smoothness pervades.

a word is the grass,
threshed underfoot.
easing of its body
some tender
moisture.

a word comes and uncomes.

how have you known it?

and does it become you?

come into a word
and the earth will
enumerate you.

it will become the everything of your self:

the namechild,
and hand within--
the flexed carousing
of your muscles,
and folded effusion
of thy clattering laughter.

there is something here.

the grass comes,
the body over it,
by foot,

and the whole body too,
carried on each step
arrives

in this place where
being is...

i do not know.

what should i say it is?

i have been,
i suppose,
and felt over me pass:

rain snow love the touch of my wife
the small sound of my daughter breathing
the occasional drip of laughing
alcohol and the warm warm warm
folding of my heart into manifolds
of hands over all things of being
perhaps holding the wheel of a car
(and how do you drive?)
or the tepid root of a glass of wine
or the shout passed immediately from
my lips at some transgression of my son.

i think i feel something
(is it the windcold
or the hot jet
of a faucet?)

i do not suppose to know.

i move
(i guess)
being something

Here.