15 August 2008


659
In this visual field there are many things,
Trees and such, people, light,
That need no accounting,
All in completeness and one may weary of it
To death--the distillation of time behind the eye
Become tongue bitterness;
Or weightless to thought's matter;
Or lost in the obviate density of the sparrows.
.
I've lost my umbrella that interweaved construction--
I was fond of its articulation.
But a willful obscurity may suffice,
And the leaves, in their tedious sun-seeking.

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