Tuesday, January 17, 2017

so body its own pataphorics

love you most when in need of sex its urgent look
its height of attention to the topographic light from below
the horizon early in the year
that this then cannot be modified or proclaimed
as goodness that requires no control or cessation
its own thing it is and more in the making
it binds like stopless weed-growth rooted deep
its ramification fungal and all of white tendrils, filaments
who snake into and within breaking down of wood debris
lest we be drowned a hundred feet high in it all and below
so insignificant in that lost other world our human walking
submerged in your envelopment wrapped all up
in all of it that crying moment when your head, borne aloft
explodes like aircraft through this another glass roof of love