27 April 2008
25 April 2008
20 April 2008
An hour's addition to the unfated
Measure: a blue market
Square awned and cinnamon
Cries of routine contending joy.
The wine is tart and bitter
A part of this short allowance
Here; your dark eye, this loaf,
That net sea fragrant.
We must smile for the air, the sun,
Our imbricated loss,
The meet hazard of the stone,
The strutting birds aimless
In their span's aim. And the hour, all, done.
16 April 2008
11 April 2008
07 April 2008
06 April 2008
The sun by's nature stretches out a blind force
And beauty's metric births from such source
Fined in every coarse
Whole in every part.
In all craft some piece may turn an art
And all terminations be but a start,
As in the carapace stirs a faint heart
Scanting nothing but a matrix to find,
That truth has her glances, mendacity blind
And in all seeming difference lies a weft in kind,
And too that summation may be but the rind.
From the first starry spray to a mind that looks back
Till finally it contemplates hitting the sack.