A melody composed of solid obstacles
Dictates itself onto paper. The sky adjusts
Automatically. The most popular prison
For sight is imagery. Light separated
From matter shines on a parking space,
A lane change. I think
That I shall never see without
Nameless grasses whispering generalities
Inside the object code which colors
Once removed at various distances
Spray onto my retinas. The proper
Study of trees is trees. A live-oak leaf
Lands upside down on a madrone branch.
Inside the curve of an ear
Each point contains all lines
Drawn through it by the insistence
Of a complete world of days. Any word
Flowers in the face of the climate's
Ornamental attacks. Moving parts
Produce the voice, the airplane,
The frenchfry. The baby on film
Wants to play with the camera.
One person each, out
Into one world, back into many.
The collection, the alphabet. He imitates
Its power, sentiments, antiquity. Scenery
In the form of a dramatic monolog.
She trails out of the present
Both ways, but is sitting
At the table with him. Sprays
Of bay, laurel, and their natural
Interpretations are tacked above them.
Hearts beating. A storm at sea.
Gossip at length, hours
Yoked together, sun shines,
Air presses on their capillaries,
Actions. Desire pronounced and
Punctuated, their minds end
In their senses. Pleasures
Lag across solid bridges.
Time to eat. Light is suffused, revised
Among the letters. Their ears fill
With sounds of the visible world.
Minutes surround them, trees
In the foreground by voice vote.
Their eyes close. It is night.
What are you saying, Bob? Thoroughly
Urban greenery, wired, giving
Reliable directions? Where? Your head
Is tangled in her dispersing cloud body.
To her, speech is a penal system.
She'll turn blue and vanish rather than
Keep listening. You're strong, talk a lot,
But it will be raining any minute.
Maybe just sit on a green bench
And watch clouds pass in and out
Of shapes you can see. She
Likes not being recognized.
That wing is now a grey square.
The wind cuts a new picture in half.
She's in tatters up there
And you're reading words on walls.
Shouts mimic the shreds of light.