Mille Oscula

Here by his empty stretches,

the gibberish, the brazen

wrong notes, of

thought long extended

is the,

surrounding/encompassing

the shifting skies strangely

elapsing his thread of

time,

ear or window of

the soul, listening, listening

for the pulse;

hearing in shifting sand

and staggered to fit

every bit in,

the wild, unrestricted,

unendingly merciless

rawness call of beauty

to this his primitive

its source at and

found, not shifting,

but pouring, inward,

a torrent of purity-

inconceivable gladness.