Complex Sleep

Squint

3 s q u i n t Far from being, the music is already there, near the beginning, nearer everything. Then a choir, what of the mind, the owl and the eagle, can you tremble. The meadow moved, in the wind, and in the dead of night, the boys broke. Your lips trembled, there is no unknown, stranger remember, the sky is spangled. Here in the snow, we heard Scripture, her dress was a thousand years, only the door to a room. There are no insides, so the hen laid the egg, it doesn’t want to eat, and I don’t want a word. To think about them almost, so they greet me, who believes the operation, the first day lilies. It is a book of half, only the insane wish, by now the orphans sounding, Isaiah gnawed his tongue. That is the book, the basic act is exterior, this is measured, by the first things. The undisputed meter, the optic nerve system, the psychic stretch of sight, or rather its imbalance. Our talk gets its meaning, haven’t they gone wrong, does a child believe, doubt itself rests. The great fright has turned, the person sitting opposite, and the miracle is, as long as this is. One would like to return, that principle of order, we neither console nor promise, in the crossing. The local strays have evolved, they are outside time, we feel a kinship, the radial lines. 4 We are in the throes, this is our primal scene, in ascent the mystic is, then the image was. The book of nature, sitting in a closet, now before it appears, the circumference assembles. It made itself, or perhaps it has always been, that is the usual extent, it is not a dilemma. They came as apparitions, the truck cast its own, my mother outlined, in unquiet she sits. All these facts fit, to live we do need facts, for they do not interfere, as they are in flux. A blanket was strung, her hands fresh from the burial, she was in the boat, with a half mile of sea. In view of the marked, observing the Spanish, meantime the whole host, it was the echo. There’s no mention of deception, what is my difference, under the street lamps, still on the stairs. He went to the window, almost involuntarily, it was drizzling, here if anywhere. To write the disappearing, these second realities, the last night gnashing, in the unfolding. A prick from a rose, the place of decision, I am not speaking, trying to resist. What is a stutter, those tracks are signs, the imagination beholds, the god of fragments. For it is the closeness, listening to the endless, the energy wants us, it breaks beyond. She carried thought, a practiced austerity, the human face in repose, begins the disappearing. The problem with syntax, the problem with giving, she stood on one foot, and imagined a future. 5 There are maps of the earth, and we are in the real, it has all gone emptied, it doesn’t seem urgent. Like a hunter who walks, under the luminous, as it is a huge banner, you pass your hand under. The passage asks, the fusion of dream, our clarity follows, the meadow is named. Late at night the ringing, if only one could be giving, begins in the shifting, this heap of hope. The goal is far distant, it becomes the wind, one is often its child, of its inner eye. She creates an echo, I lack a reflection, those eerie lines, this black dot. So the book remains, pages come calling, they must have lain in water, the eternal words. They come to the water, the summer is greening, I saw a girl with a lamp, her mystery trained. Everything as processed, leaving its look within us, as we were the desert, as we had no borders. Here are the fires, to permit the book, to be perfected, by the wind. The dark is housed, and another ballad, the human voice emerging, the impossible tape. Who cupped my ear, tattered wisps of clouds, didn’t Papa go up, through the inner gate. Could Nature be headless, revival of the snake, the specific bridge, the river sometimes gathers. A photograph of Socrates, and his tongue removed, who swam out and signaled, it is both person and tree. The rain we thought, a solution not ready, annoyed you bit, who covered his mouth. 6 We have caught everything...