Listing now for tokens, for order—
the sepal-flower grown
in back lots. Shrub and baseball bat.
Pinned. The pennant gone wavering now, gone into truck-
sounds and magnetic fields absorbing. It went and it goes.
We went and we go, not the would have, there,
umbrella hinged up like a wing
over-scouting and wavelets scudding.
Beyond the lot, vision caught my holy in the new saint. New
picture new page of the martyred. Mated. Dragonflies hover
and we topple
to the sound of purity given up
to our making. We can call if we must, the leaves in, canopy
shaking. This is sight this is sound. Paying it—
replaying it then. Where there are grooves in the record
our voices die into hovering
telling us maybe we are off -wind
streamed to a stammering. This I write. Tighted
into I am not so, not a seeming although there is
a sound and image accordance and though this
is an eye-piece. Pierced for the gathering, maybe, or hum.
Dragonfly anything to remember ourselves by.
When we say it, what do we mean, tone, curve of upper lip
by this I would coin it
cruel and glassy. So under the hollows we go
to find the holy wood, to back-track to moisture
and the lichen and the Styrofoam cup.
Capitalized into weather-breath. Berthed. Your notion of my
satellite, wind beating the rubberized fabric to a new sound
of textile and telling you this is a relation
among relations, air feeling October and the walk
along the ridge. To get to. Casting over two
by two from the window and wanting it all to be figured up
into sense for the X, for the apparatus. For the eyes
to tell to the ears beyond the black
and white image of a hatted man on his horse.