Sancho profligate Panza I know you
as well as I know the back of my hand,
spinnaker Quixote is billowing out
to enfold the pregnancies of the wind

the world's on its way not knowing its way,
never knowing where it's going or why,
no milling the wind, no willing the wind,
o, poor Pancho your Don is resolute

o, poor Pancho, your Don is dissolute
not knowing what he does, not knowing why,
he's prophet without honor lost at sea,
the tale of Quixote is billowing out

Sancho profligate Panza you are spent
following your Don as I follow you

A rose arises from out of the sea,
rose rose, I see from the sea, risen rose
no petals and no thorns, bloom on the water,
bloom of the water that suffuses sea

a risen cloud of rose rose in the throes
of its rose arising in thornless splendor,
indescribably soft its suffusing
of the emptiness that was before rose

rhapsody of rose, threnody of rose,
this rose rose that arose on these waters
entered  words as if it had never left
this rose that lifts off the page, arises

a rose rose's arising is juxtaposed
in  all who come to sniff a rose's scent

Trembling on the pale blue lip of winter,
very last pink azalea blossom,
tendering tribute longing for a bee
against south sinking the diminished sun

it's blessedly unaware of how slight,
how fragile it is, how least breeze troubles,
how each touch of the sun brings the end on,
how it is like me phantasmagorical

and so seizes hold of me entering
by the portal of my eye, holding sway
over my mind throughout the coming day,
where it will stay after it is long gone

and propagate through this trembling record
of my breath after I, too, have gone long

Ground's covered in leaves, refugees from trees,
sunshine to be recalibrated dirt,
higher up few bright orphans cling to twigs
waiting wind that will bring them down to earth

pageant's almost done, winter's almost come,
white sail of the moon cuts a colder sky,
the tongue twists, can't resist tumult of time,
I'm awake, mortality my hold's freight

the evergreens are true to their deep greens
as they await first dusting of snow white
each instant transpires to the next, remains
as slightest gauze before the eyes and goes

now is the summa *** float, bubble
that holds all that is painted on its walls