the Morning Plays
We Responsible Selves rear
a-laughter faute de mieux for want
Of better days the Sun
its face of feuilles
our aisle of eyes
breathes a bitter niche
bel respiro
for to give yes this violent physics
the elbow brings the body abrought
studies in a sleeping-with
this morn
the nile (not
just limbs)
washes One Just
Limb across
me en dessous your
arm longue longing sleeping
an octave’s armspan
***
we created an elderly sun
made dull his eyelids
only to wake him worn
to a rustic, ancient morning
the contre-jour pouts
with a stroke of his eye
crowns your brow brilliant
***
once i’d held (with hands gingerly
a fine ol’ sunbeam
laid it against your breathing little
dust-words in the light
(see it break hemming
the ends of your hair)
then i’d gathered a yawn
we say good morning puzzle!
for wakefulness only Monet strokes
an inkling on this solemn tongue
madam mother
handsome in smile fore
cast a child-I
study this known printing
madam mother avant around
labored of knowned late
so speech child acknowls only
admit of numbers abodied
mdm mother her going pacing
faces a-rounded instrument living
last night the shuddering late
lune acrossed the table ran
a lune creasing bleak
smiles a lengthened weight
when I-to, thine
when I-to, thine,
dearest touchest arms breach
drivest mine unsightly reach
thine, with true scorn singly
handedly wilt herein openly
handest (within-wanting), thou
yearnst without-wanting avow
thine treadest a-willingest whilst
mine warmer waters waitst
in thy every step hath
sorroweth thine soles sewn
In rêve I seem (I am), real-to
yearned having, without either having.
Added or subtracted from all-le-monde, Known.
for these are not they, and God, bigger
than what I was raised on
lent a sonnet of bones.
To the I, built on a lack (herein)
Anothers’ Vue allplentying, emptying—
(if Love is-a receiving the eyes)
The rêverie runs dry.
Unmovement holds it fast by its seams.
dining across the world’s ugliest man
the rat-beer swirls
a fat amber candle
leads way a glutton bubble
slicking down his mouth
If you join this chatter-pop
the rat-fritters smell jesus you’ll never
looked this bottomed any wife
from a clothesline, any wife
scuffling up your sleeve oh dearie won’t
you lean this bouquet seldom