Rhapsodies astound silent Baruch’s

tautologies of this: an ascientific meta-

Being ash or atheism driven towards our

corona dispersed as imagist ratio

His reference assumes a treasonous

punishing abuse with rank revolting

The differentiated sum to identify their

from the spun injurious opal-minded view

Now you would not think

The twenty three twi-night years
were a piece with me,

the three seven or so cry-life years
I sat with for several friends,

and any reframed by godly doubt
I sat on sleeping, for all but a wooden

hour where it bled down to the intensive
grass, chewed at limit and listens when:

I was the wretched whiteness
espying the baptismal white dove

I was the wisp flying black on
water as your brown wrist stood firm

I was the tempting color brand just a
shade of external city ways

I was the breed green-of-leaf covering
clung to beatle knit love

I was the clean perfidious river
emaciated in hazy staying lips

I was the coronet shape hatched flat
blowing glass returns from sand

(Now you would not think)
I was the Minnesota feline sound

and Yes, our Yankees win

between an experience
and its expression, the
pink dark tonsil replicates

after a hardening poem
scaffolding, tatters of
aphorism, off-plastic cement

presume gold wrung, up-
raided, appraised, woven
evil tongue to an evil eye

Fauvist read! esconced in a
kennel of statement, once
of simultaneity by abeyance

Loss verbalizing amidst Gar-
gantuas, and arid plateaus,
the Egyptian coda; witticism

smoked upon blue tenement
cedes a censured pod for
cackling falsity mourned

“call it rest, call
it flight, name it freight
(I name it night)”

and Yes, our Yankees win