pass me through this
(the lung)
an embolist--

not making a passage,
but constrict instead
all moving of hart;
all ******* of blud.

a minute will be your hands
around the neck of girl,
pale spent, lurid
in the cheeck--
a stain breathing,

below the eye
not clover
nor neither dye
but the curved hinge
from where all seathing flys.

sum wut werd 1 means
i dont think a single think
will mean.

And how should 1 know it?

By what name will you call this thing?

the nam'ed thing persists
resisting itself nothing
which unencumbers,

the still pistil
of a blade between
the toes.

Have your feet tasted much?

Have you been so proud to get at the meaning of poems?

(there are thousands of poems left).


                                                             .







                                                              .











                                                                 ,

the sheafmen come in night as day
and lay the stock of grain in hay;
they pull the scythe to the reap the lot
and bear the yoke in cool as hot.

never at ease, never at stay:
they toil a hand fer heft and weigh;
faster and faster they tie wuts brot
laying in bundle accorded knot.

never to sleep, always to lay,
baring the dirt at shafts' away;
tug at haft ere comes the rot,
that's all the life a sheafman's got.

come this day with me and look upon the earth.

She is a wise
wide at the hip
deep into her
basin where

the folding occlusion
of her bulging lips
contain the
exstatic pearl of life.

she is full:
her thighs
abound over
in supple fat;

her moss is
golden she hangs
a bent beam
on the running
rill from her

cleft bump,
the hillocks
suffused in
grass rollick
and distend
pleasantly.

within where
the waters
part themselves
into blood
and wine.

Her mucous
is secrete:

it flows
en-opaled.

The eyes are for it.
The mouth is for it.
The hands are for it.

it holds wide itself,

(and tight and suffuse
and secretly languorous)

for all who would enter;

and ALL entering is here.


And leaving too
is here:

there is entering and there is exiting here;
one quickly after the other,
or at the same time,
or at neither--
entering and exiting all the same.

She is a worm hung
and in her cellar
is some moist rot;

but do not dismay
for as entering and exiting:
from rotting there is birthing.

And how we are born.

And how we come from her.

And how we come into her.

And are made the same again.

by this the world i mean the flesh:
the lip eye
bone sinew
ear mouth
and nose;

i mean the nerve
over buzzed
by impingement;

the shocking
and profuse
frock of the
skin,

tingling at
the rush of breath;

i mean the cold
and cadaverous
welching of
the lips not formed
about spent gas,

in rutted exersion
of its yearning atom.

(the bone and hand
are at once in play
with the muscles,
which form and
gesticulate the self;

they make as unmake
and the world lists between
their span--

gripped tightly
in the 1 moment
and let idly
in the neckst)

i have formed
myself
my hands
around the
shafts of roses

and i have never been
myself less or more
than in those moments
neither being absorbed
nor voided of presence

but only being
the hand
around which
the within
holding
the presence of a rose:

i lift
to my nose
and eat
the exsellent
PoLLEn,

            .


                   ,




        .














                                   ­     !

being just the flesh eyes
make electric,
blue that
the sky
occasionally will be,

or wooled over
in grey,

and A house will
suppose a window

before which
(being just the flesh)

skin will
zing
electric

over from
the palp of winds;

the hair will,
****** between by
some air,
bumble and ******;

the scalp will rejoin
with wine,
spilt uncarefully
in sips
through the gullet,
and the cheek will
renumber the blossomed
heads of capillary and vein:
being cloaked in pallid rouge.

Of how i am being
beginned
by the whorled blood
and the expressed chamber

i sit, kneel and walk
supposing upon earth
the each of my feet;

my hands kneed and fold--
i collect in them bodies of my children:
sleeping, awake, crying, laughing;

i collect in them bodies of things
unminded and minded alike;

i collect in them the sheaf
of spent grasses:
the hull of them
containing the celled
phantasm of God's breath.

i linger and i am not myself;
i stand before wall
and my gaze becomes fuzzed,
unfocused--and i wonder.

i touch and am known by my hands.

the things touched,
too,
are known
(perhaps)
by me,

in the quiet between
my buzzed flesh
and the smooth rudeness
of the thing.

i handle and am handled
by my loverwife,

(the coarse cutting
of her fine hip
hair is a needle

split

over the nerves
of my caress--

it electrifies--

and i am stolen
between the fibers.)

i am alive,
and how should I know it?

imaketherainwalksoverthebackofmyearsandIsigh:

"Good Bye"