The disputed dust of your eye is not more irritated than I am.
You see we came here with a vacuum, homely and honest,
ready to perceive retrograde motion. But a body flanked from the
sibyl’s balcony interrupted trust. The fungas skies were peeled back
with a crowbar. Now what is left is whatever there is left. The
saying has slided to the left, and the chairs growing in the garden
have been turned out like a kindly senile cow. Wasn’t it yesterday
that fat grapes were solace, and breezy girls valued their
wage in the leaning valley? Others have been saturated with this
realization, calm at first, then taken to the highway, where
bereavement adovcates death. Their thoughts force us: we must go
on because violet farmers are trying to show hope in starving
hovels. But I was deformed since birth, so it never really mattered.
This legend leaps under the glass to the magnet growing
through the wind. Perhaps too often advice rots the tongue.
The loans stand out, warm with simplicity and lacking the rights
to settle down, to make a new deal and kill again the afternoon
with yawning greed. Tomorrow will find his way. Just dream
of the steady house. Now see the waterfall confronting the door?
Everything has to take, in the deserted beautiful country where
we live.
JUNE 2007