The sugars drop down in the berries,
no longer specific. That mangy deer
sleeps the summer off. You’ve been here
the night away, a body with its bit
of local pain. Under the hazel: spots
on satyr anglewings [Polygonia satyrus] spaced
unevenly. Spikenard bundles
poof up from huge stalks.
[“Then took Mary a pound of
ointment of spikenard, very costly, and anointed
the feet of Jesus…”]
Friday self-dislike is replaced
by earlier mild energy.
Fiery rocks hurl themselves through
“heavenly dust”– (Why are ‘e‘ & ‘r‘ reversed
in fiery while f stays on first–)
You’ve been up the night away, a silhouette
of clauses: claws in the dust
making you sneeze. Vast a thought,
vast a sky waiting for morning fog.
Pour down, light strands of the difficult;
the moon will not rise
with its golden axe of being–
If the fog is too thick, the meteors are on line:
The first void is God waiting; that
continues, of course. Then a couple of pings.
Sounds like the back of the universe
is getting acupuncture:
@@** a spinning is entered by needles
of gloved rain.
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