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PU1llation -Po Chii-yiBeyond the eye, grasses go over the long fields. Every season it happens, as though I-no; I and you, Dear friend-decreed it. It is what we would like to have, And it is there. It is the season for wildfire, And it will come, but will never quite get every one Ofthe grasses. There is some green left, this year as last, For us. Once more they are tall In the April wind. They make the old road be The road, where you and I go toward the old, beetle-eaten City gate. Oh, fire, come on! I trust you. My ancient human friend, you are dead, as we both know. But I remember, and I feel the grass and the fire Get together in April with you and me, and that Is what I want both age-gazing living and dead both sighing like grass and fire. TheAx-God: Sea Pursuit -after Alfred JarryOn the horiwn, through the steam ofexhausted blast-furnaces Pure Chance blows, as though it were really itself blows Not very well, and moans and shakes bells. These are the sounds that invented salt. But, listen, Waves, we are among the arced demons you are hiding In the visiting green gullies ofyour mountains. Where the shoreline clamps a lost quivering over all Ofus, a huge and shadow-cast shape looms over muck. We crawl round his feet, loose as lizards, While, like a filthy Caesar on his chariot, Or on a marble, leg-crossing plinth, Carving a whale-boat from a tree-trunk, he ... The Ax-God: Sea Pursuit / 403 fog Yes Well, in that branching boat, he'll run Us down, league for league down down to The last ofthe sea's center-speeding Center-spreading and ropeless knots. Green blue Time space distance: starting from the shore white His arms ofunhealable, veined copper Raise to Heaven a breathing blue ax. Nameless (near Eugenio Montale) Sure. All the time I come up on the evil over us ofjust living: It's been the strangled creek that still tries To bubble like water it's been the death-rattling leaf Dried out for no reason and the tripped-sprawling horse. As for anything good: you find it for me And I'll look at it. All I can come up with Is an enclosure: the religion-faking sun-blasted rack Ofdivine Indifference. As I say, Sure: It's the statue in its somnolescence Ofprimitive, hectored stone. It's noon And cloud and the falcon in circles, Who planes, as high as he can get, For nothing. Math -LautreamontNumbers who can't ever hear me I'll say it anyway All the way from my age-old school. You're still in my heart, And I can feel you go through there . Head-Deep in Strange Sounds: Free-Flight Improvisations from the unEnglish / 404 ...

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