1287

1286

The melon in the plastic bag

Is so without my breath,

And forgoes the politeness of discernment

In shades without spectrum

And mass without weight.

My opened eye's calculus is the same,

As natured as what's beheld,

Tasting sweet what is

Red without a name.

1285

1284

1283
A stone like a fever is my heart
From my only distance falling
Through stature's measure of a loss--
A minus of cold art.
.
A bird like a season is your heart
From your only distance calling
Through logical assay of a gain--
The remainder is but a part.

1282

1281

1280

1279

1278

1277

1276

1275

1274

1273

For dominion sleep

And of endings dream,

And waking put finger to pane,

And eye to cloud and tree without,

To start at immediacy's

Blunt elsewhere's tang,

And your domain's razor-wide within.

1272

1271

1270

1269

1268