i begin or say or write the shards today,
both going and coming as honest to way,
both being havers and not
without imagination;
sea bright by motionless moon
to turn upwards and down again,
wake on wake by wake again.
my thrush heart and head
subtled by the limp sword
of ghostly words;
lips for splaying words,
my ears for eyeing
her painted word,
words words words bare of breath
and dumb, not dead.
it is the finger
that tastes the grass
for dew and beats the daisy green for weed;
the same needling bone I'd have rung,
now pounds in fist;
blistered first sown by seed early sprung,
sounds free from me.
gross liberty sings,
mocks the garden still this year,
the orange tree not with blossoms but
orange fruit sour in blown youth
yet blasted;
the sands are hardened with lime,
(the gross in marrowless rhyme)
all roads here to lead and roam
my middling dust
by beat of wings
to be
or not
be left alone
as monster made,
unwatched,
unknown,
with gross ruins
gross in mind.
