oh Rose
how thou
art of my
heart always
a part

in fiber
and beating
the muscle

big lung
inside where
interchange
blood air

you grow
your croaking
voice

the roots reach
into soil
unstill

moved
rhythmically
by your being

my Rose
my heart

thou art
the first cause

a beginning
moved not
but moves
all action
to start

.



.










,

the something you alive,
white naked
blue eyed
stranding
blonde
darkly
wheat gold

i run
,a finger,
through

while makes
gladness
sing saying
by voice
the mouth
of your
soul

i (Dear)
am not
without thy
chasteness
after chasing
the morning
on hills cloaked in
crocus and thyme

reach to hold
the crust of your
divine health

a cheek
pallid
struck through
(rouge)
and beating
little by

heart
this my
dear
let
this anthem
of thy breath

ring through
all stillness
a golden tone

exciting every
atom to
DANCE

Goodbye
I loved you the way
night were
stars and
ceaselessly
against darkness
standing brightly
up the sky
by a shore
suddenly
with the ocean
froth and smell
of green girls
coiling between
your toes
a whole meadow
immediately with
course hulls
under the fingers
buzzing a bee
by the rain
in whose black
body Lavender,
thyme, and
thistle
shouldered
up bearing
the blind
of new sunlight
“like shining
From shook
foil “

with what
cleanness
are wife hands
whole

in whose
joining
are the bodies
of my children

And

my wife’s body
in who slept
my children

whose breath
were
their breath

whose blood
were
their blood

carrying
the crumbs
of a little life
through
biggest
Death

by the way,
I have always loved you,
unwonderlingly which
I do not think
another hand
would be so nice
in mine

a hand last held
—no void to fill:
(the hand that grasps
is empty still).

so wait this hand
to holdest yours
when shut my eyes
as closest doors

no part, no rent
will bear the breaking
of flesh’s joy
a join making

so lay in still
at slumbers ask
a morn will come
where loves a bask

who R you the god
i've been
inside several
times tonight

         ?

a beach rose
where one time
i wished i was
seeing the ocean
split itself again
over a man.

did you ever
wonderlingly
upward which
a star upon
pitch stairs
climbs casually?

who knows not me i've never even seen.

in what sureness holds wife hands?

My most mundane love,
fresh in a moment
i felt your shoulders
between my fingers
the fascia binding
my soul to yours.

when took me
yours beneath
a smallest gable
of artificial flowering:

(in a peach dress
very pregnant;
i kissed the
last person).

in bigsome whole colliding
the earthmoonsun suddenly
start starring into opaque
coolness: the nape over
standing hair exactly

on ends of pricked groove

the moonlight is just
and the crooked
fullness of mountain
the breadth of pale sky
interposed, a uh just

under the scalp tingling
when it's outside
carefully snow
and your feet are so wet
inside your shoes

where you kissed a pretty girl once
and though you will
(why not)
be dead someday

turning the radio
up until its bigness
erupts

"What do you think you're doing in here?"

it seems the brief
nothing of my
hands cradle
the sweating brow
of my child
sleeping so hardly
within the quiet
of her breath--

the smallest pressing
of her chest the
largest miracle of life.

her hair is fine
and golden--
the light comes somewise
the follicle full
and brimming in
brilliant strands.

my wife is beautiful and i love her:
she has given me the most
beautiful gift in my children.

she carries in her body the torch
of into swallowing enormity:
whole darkness.

on the withers of a pale horse,
riding into that good night,
she bears making.

a maker before all craftsmen,
she creates through effort of her flesh
the most exacting somethingess of being.

i hold the makings of
her hips in my arms
and they are the most
beautiful thing i have
ever seen.

if you
,being me,
want to arrive suddenly
with the moon

(up carrying
the downward
slings of gossamer
glittering night)

i will make soul completely
in the burning shine.

i will make chaste
my smiling sometimes,
and climb inwards
the up what which

hangs by clearly
the pendent
of your chest,

fulminant

and

RISING

in 1
whole
pale moment
,rouged,

your LIFE dreams

of you holding
a square against
the sun.

looked back
onto the happening
of your mindbody

that breathing
instantly
took the light

from the porch
sleeping a
cat where
sitting

purrrs

indistinctly
under the
tiniest crush
of a breeze

--

A CHIME IS RINGING

--

and all stillness
waits to seize
the atom of your
hand in A square
against the sun
the collection of
its splitting into
thinnest sheets of
brilliance

i could kiss you through the tongue,
straight into the mouth
behind where the teeth
lick feeling the chips

inside your plaque
and the florid
cheek
pricked over
by the running nail

vermillion, garish
and extremely
sharp(oh

they are tracing
the precise shape
of your ***)

a hulking
of which
strands the
gently coiled
of your wrist
within my hands

its hold folding
within folding
the bounded
rhythm of thy
pulse:

"I want to *******".

How alive you are,
take me this
in your 5 fingers
the stult and
around of me

the eyes off--
rounded--
complete,
and near
through
nearness

abreast blazeness
(where blazes
2 pale *******)
full and deep

deeply between
fullness and nearness:
the 5 fat fingers
you are
Alive--

how?

no poem with compares
to the stinging suddenly
up of what upward airs.
a moon half corporally

has by slow instant chance
itself in utterly nearness
2 on satin shoulders dance.
with no abrogate: queerness,

its indistinct afterglow
hugely downward under
openly golden star's grow.
has not by chance asunder,

the littlest death of bells,
to mountain quiver as rivers and in dells.

no small thing breathing.

it jumps between
transference.

it's exchange
with blood
and air.

and the smallest capillary betrays:
there is no death
which is not inside.

and the allroot
of the skin
suffuse with wine.

its prickling
burst has some
laughter wandering

in the miasma
of a kiss:

hot breath
stinking a little
and why not because
when my tongue is
in your mouth i don't
mind the smell.

i like it.

the gross and sweating of you.

i like it.

the way and how
you are first in the morning your hair is wild and i want to kiss you after the quiet of it passes over into the noise of your rapidly changed face.

i loved you the way you were in those moments
when i got inside you
and your wrists were
so narrow and pale
inside my hands,,,

something smooth.

something delicate.

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"

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.

Winter's coming did you feel
it this morning
walking
there is

DEADDEADDEAD

everywhere

leaves which

(did you)

crunching between

hoofandroot

the mouth
and which
enumerates the light

bending
unbent
fleckless strands
of sunlight

rich in mote
and flaring
about which
the coalesced

atom of LIFE
hangs
(hung
           )

ever so
and briefly which
we all are
but

just a

rich mote

hanging
in a beam

i am most alive

   (inside your)

where all
warmness resides
its cleaving
and pinched
moistness;

i believe,
AND
pink, which
pinkness with
cannot contend,

palely imitating
the body and hollow
color of your cheeks,

your makes
which body
does
(mine) when

inside all you
the completeness
of death
is most
undone.

mind ,
doing
     the    flesh
        thing ,
  sits
occasionally
    standing
(sometimes)
    when
and if
   the undull
sudden
   happening
of body
  arrives
through all
quiet darkness
a vibrous
  and
luminent ,

     "Hello."

1 rude reality intrudes
its bulging
and inflamed
nose, about

which hangs
the paunchy
and florid
cheeks,

blud strung
by fine and
very narrow
little veins,

that weblike
spider across.

in their thinness
straying
(uncarefully)
the neck down.

the hair is lank.

the eyes distended,
in which,
their is some sheen
dulled.

the ******* hang,
(are limp),
flaccid
and pendulous.

where is my body
i will lie in it
the world

from which
my flesh
trees the heart
and my breath
will come

into the stars
hanging
gossamer and
flung neatly
the pate over

and my mouth
will be the sea
issuing
verb
root
and foam

it will vibrate
from my own
valved throat

a single
straining
word

bursting

through all darkness

a fulgent
burning
FLOWER

i lay here in bed
and my wife’s
beside me her
breathbody is
rhythmically and
i can hear sleepness
which the curved
blades of her back
:(risingandfalling)
commit each after
each of breathing
which her ribs
contain and her nose
vents between cartilage
and membrane making
the finest whistle
only finer than the
thinnest fineness of
her hair which also
is and beside me which
catches the lamp light:::

      SHIMMERING

i will be dead someday i wonder are you
reading this and who are you and where
is it that you have come and been and
have your eyes collected between them
each word of myself and this is the only
thing i suppose being but dirt and a little
scant ash (maybe atree) grows above me
and did you ever think the same hands
that held your son would be worm food
mud and birds meal (a robin maybe) R
there still robins i hope you kissed a
pretty girl last night I love you more
than anything .
                          .
                          .

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.

I love you, my wife, you are
beside me sleeping,
though earlier
you were warmly
within my hand,
your hand;

And I looked and I saw
you sitting there,
the light easily
within your eyes,
and all blueness peered
palely out;

What is more beautiful than you—
I do not know.

No more goodness that I know either.

(you are goodness ten times
the goodness that is me)

And kindness.

And I am always near to your thoughts.
And no one has ever loved me, as do you.

I love you, and I love you, and I love you.

You are my wife.
Always that I am.
And will be.

(i leaned over and kissed your cheek.
you were sleeping while, and were irritated—i could tell)

It is still here now, I think.
Perhaps.

The land is still.
The grass is still.
The water is still.

(the rain faintly against the glass is still.).



The earth is private in the smallness of its breathing.

It is the smallness of my son’s breathing.

I stand over him and I listen and I watch.

He breathes and the smallness of the world sleeps with him.


(my wife snores.
my daughter rustles in her crib.)


It is still here now, I think, perhaps.

cool this
finger over
scalp(

             the world)

and beneath
the hair the
slick stuff
of love:


F L O W E R S  .    

Where
between
the quick cloth
of trees a stag

(twining tine)

‘tween root and sea

. And the taste of everything

perhaps is
the last
breath of (almost) Spring

when neck and kissing
each smoothness of skin arrives.

Opening all doors—
fills all hallways:

the laughing of children
and the whispers of mothers

i need but one word to speak
before all entreaty close me:
the sighs of women weak
and all the ladies holy.

my wife that i love you are sleeping
heat over heat
of my ankle yours ;

the trilling
thrum of
your snore is long

longer than the long night
of unsleepingly my body,

heat under heat

of your body mine.  .  .

i hear occasionally our son
also whose snoring
is small
small
sma
ll er

than he is
(can you believe?)

that you are
after all
who i wish i had become,

       (i do not know you)  .

the lips neither the mouth nor
teeth between neck.

i kiss,
and again
i am not you.

i make after the rain
my skin to run
with rivulets of sun.

i do not live early
or sweet between you.

i do not make the small sound
of your breath
inside my own breath.

but, after all, i have my son.

and what more is there than that?

nothing.

and perhaps
(after all)
he shall be
who i wish i had become.