#53

Do you read? Night hands, prick. The gardens and alley curves lit but empty now of sparrows. Lapis lazuli and delphinium respite. The time again we turned through pages noted, black. Dim tableaux, signed and numbered in graver imitation. "Like spilt wine on a linen tablecloth" perhaps. Or "the relief of leaving . . . overwhelms me." Artists creep in shadows, say, the pederast prey in scenes. Still you catch what come in thousands, fold them thrice in lines. Dapple hands and hearths and hues. In your quote book. Remember.

There is, as was, the counting sleight: too much on what's been had foretell. Curls that fall past pillows and eyes. Or vistas drawn on trains. That sleeping body, mine, exposed. A "transient gallery, Mr. Mapplethorpe, red velvet" on blue. Time it that way - and remember. Love of self, love of family . . . the distance fingers travel. Many good returns in speech and vision. Do you read? Slack grasp, praise. Then, like an image multiplied. Your two accounts, softened by your softened rise. Mind them in posted patterns. Turn.