#40

How many warring roads through hills. Evening stampedes. Horses in triplicate. Whether the bad wind blows, I would borrow a cantos. Tie my finger to a bridge. And the image-maker - why, he stands "unadorned by circumstance." One could curl up and die in patience. Celebrate the sooth-saying that departures profit. Immanence. Kindly drawstring.

Electrical prose that grafts. The flowers of burden in weeds. Must one keep on, as an inclement, ringing the curving bell? Like a mad song aggravantemente. Dress him as a traveler. And he passes on roads her home. Crooked pin-stars spinning, Tabitha. Level the radio, prayer. A tattle who echos in pilfered accents. With candle through the barbed field. And Babylon, my girl with swollen eyes. Near the sea where he sees what he sees. All the tide in your arms at the moment of his longing. Yes.