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.

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.

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

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.

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

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)

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.

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?

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

me,maybe?

after all i am occasionally myself.

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

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

.



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