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We took a walk in the park today
Where the air trembled with nothingness,
Somewhat damp,
And a squirrel held his tale like a boa--
Nothing, to him.
Or was it being? With a fonted sky
Toiled over with words convexed, concaved:
The bulging topology of clouds,
Wisped, perhaps, by prickly italics.
At any rate, our thoughts seemed as fellows,
And no vapor arose about us.

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The encompassing shallow-hearted deity
That was, is not--
Nor space nor time
But the particulate word
Enchanting: the sea of suns
Is measured.
The primer's eluctable equations, monks' cribs,
Are now stranged, flavored, and spun
To the depth and breadth of the matter--
And the maker's extremity, finger extended,
Is uncurtained as a clockwork chaos.

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Unblink and it remains,
The glass edges, the antemeridian light,
The four sisters in Sunday's weeds
Called from Wednesday tasks.
Now--bone ache, cow shit, prairie wind so tired of it.
But there's a thing to do and another after,
And I'll not stop. I'll not stop.

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