ONLY AIRS
Brutes dance and leer for miles along this humid route.
Defile your fears!
Animals charge my boy's door, matted demons bury him—on
wings he views them galloping treacherous circles to eat infants
in their homes, save the last bite, the innocent plum;— ancient
crosses tease the country as pastors pour suburban ale.—
Monday, solar circles file outdoors, grand moments, blues
ignored.
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MISTY
Desperate for bondage, already in flames, the crew summits
your mountain.
A ghostly terrain, dead already, paints for you its homicides and
touts disastrous brutes: silent, leering, cowed.
The rear, the art, the droid, the line of oranges: these progress.
Lads dunk flowers into toilets: "come here, painter; count your
nose, your face, and fake the flowering blame that blew you
back."
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FLOWERS
Dunes, graded over, turn bronze in the soil,—the voice taps out
ardent filigree.
These pieces of our June support a dome of emeralds.
Your blues and axe form the night: the foals, June, and forty
roses.
+++
H
Solitude at the East Sea: mechanically erotic latitude.
The port is for our overt misery.
Lady Love: from the mortality of each actual corpse ensues
passion or action in our son.—A terrible friction among new
lovers, sure that the soul is as clear as hydrogen!
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