Wednesday, May 11, 2011

Hundred Horses

a palm full
of white feathers
of what holding
is to his palm
is folding the fingers
carefully about what’s
being held feld
into drops dewing up
up on the tip their nose.
radiating espiralating all
about a given center,
an object clothed
in gold that I see,
and winning itself toward heaven,
where spin and air
are not taken
but assumed completely
heaven’s swinging all about
this; trees are shaking
with its crash the twice-more-
overed sound of honey baking
undulating wave tiding, coasting
the coast of sea and running
grass that’s sunning,
I’m drinking water singing
for this water’s
and refreshing.
I’m sipping,
then gulping,
you see

No comments:

Post a Comment