1765
A call in the street in winter,
Unseasonably garbed
In the verge of spring's creatures'
Voices,
Tastes of years.
Unforeseen not unexpected
Is some score winters gone.

1764

1763

1762

1761

1760

1759

1758
I do not represent
Or signify
One thing beyond this small space held;
No voice to sound
To who would hear,
No eye to sight
What cannot be seen.
From a piece of time
Does the least feather of a pigeon depend,
And my mortal soul,
That spires could touch
If I would them,
With every else will end
In the merest trough of matter,
A once of nothing.

1757

1756

1755

1754

1753

1752
Tho the wind sat in my sail's shoulder
I would not sail being not
Of sails.
What wind that'd snap a canvas
Stir an instant fixed?

1751

1750

1749

1748
With what animal fervor
Is lust's object chased
With sly emblems of love:
So the iron hot
National Geographic worm
Of lava taints
The vast press of coolness with its blood red
Transactional variation
Of something both shaped and shaping.

1747

1746

1745

1744

1743

1742

1741

1740

1739

1738

1737

Doe sloe eyed

Is consequential

In this morning's field equations

Along the unreal axis:

She is the complex root

Of my equal I.

Sloe eyed, once,

Was consequential

In a fluorescent light.

1736

1735

1734

1733

1732

1731

1730

1729

1728

1727

1726

1725
Make this thing without your worth,
And empty be;
The morning sun that new-sets a world's
Fine tracery
Is not yours,
For its currency has no name.
No receptivity as fine
In what it perceives
Serves your phantom'd sight,
That wants what is not there.

1724

1723

1722

1721

1720

1719

1718

1717
Because the wind is high
I ache to breathe in the space between
What sees and what is seen,
As if all time were stopping there,
As if an earth were sky
That choked fictitious emotion.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LG5squHcOyI

1716