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

by whyly
you stand
a Woman
i love
in the nearness
of your eyes
the room catches
a fleck
of brilliance
and the color
of your soul
bREATHES

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 *******".

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 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 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.

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.

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.

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

.



.










,

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

O Milk
in whose
white blood
a fingers full

thick and
brutish

running curls
against
tight buzz

it mouths
unquietly

a tongue split
in twaining
cream
lapping the lips

on a stomach
convulsion kissed

bead by running
sweat pools

opens its throat
and
screams