everyday i'm discussing with everyday, myself as i make out to the glamouring the inches and dashes of every self i have and stitches of sinew here in which lies the me that is this i, i that am
i walked in leaves of grass, of wriggling splendor's summers of shoulders and achy crimsoned necks by the suns meters of light measuring the stints of our crawling opaque days and suns of many sons
it's very that is that even when sun should repose his ***** of uncadenced carefully miraculous shimmering blood like orange and ardent flesh he'd go on us it, giving his very stuff our bodies
to wear on our wheres and whens and whys. is night not also beautiful? it is naked beautiful. **** and beautiful plenteous and beautiful with all its hearts in tinder palely igniting every
atom of copious earth. bowls of copious illuminant children, the things which will become after us the us that we were before their coming. but they are gorgeous and neither
would i weep if in my going they should take that space where were was i. resting the shouts of my self in the orchards of youth, i am now so but it's quickly running, flitting
eagerly from my this. in vines and plurals i am single and many. neither none nor many. but many ones, little bubbles of tranquil vile fluid guttering the songs of wind.
i go to streams and they are me. i go to mountains and they are me. i go to valleys and they are me. can i be streams and mountains and valleys? can i not be streams and
mountains and valleys? they are weeds and i am a ****. a **** is a rose. i am rose. i am blossomed in full spring. able of petals. i am turned to the sun, with my
root between the lips of earth. who is my lover. the earth is woman. she is a ****. a **** is a rose.