Thursday, October 16, 2003

choice tatter lifting above
specified trees, rich descriptive
by a river or road
before moving on, to where
the aliens rendered some
judgment or seance
thru the crisp air of
assumption in
autumnal terms
but more, the
quiet gravesite or
landscape drilled into
imagined polytheistic
dream template, so that
it all holds together tho
sad equations occur and
love seems symphonic and
sometimes a slighter
tho always a sounding
and surveillance and
grasp and tang and possible
expressed or held back
just as slight, we in our
narrative sport
hang on, thru 'praxis'
or elevation, prime
real estate of the
green ridges
snapped into order by
word choice or just
sequential relief, stating the
obvious until
it can be seen, receiving love
questions in the midst, and
holding out for more,
the trees are part, the rocks
are part, and each person
under the sun and moon,
the aliens flick divots
into the choosing air
of our natural sound, for which
act we sigh and

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