15 August 2008

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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