So that here is a falling off. To the end of the inflamed limit, we lingered here, encouraged.
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The Weather
Poetry. New work by the best-selling author of XECLOGUE and DEBBIE: AN EPIC. "Consider that we need to drink deeply from convention under faithfully lighthearted circumstances in order to integrate the weather, boredom utopic, with waking life. By 'integr
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The wind sounds like paper; our sex is no problem. The elms are as green and as fresh as oaks; we taste of aerial fluids and drugs. There are curious crystallizations; we are the dream of conflict. There goes the sun; we influence contingency.
The sky is mauve lucite. The light lies intact and folded. You can anticipate the wind. A slight cloud drifts contrary to the planet.
Time pours from its mouth. We design it a flickering. Here is its desolation. Here it crosses. Here it falls at last. Here it has its full gratification. Here on the yet visible remains. The first. Maybe this gaze. Here, waiting.