These farmers fited in gold and blue are drinking a heated rosewater next to the padded window.

These farmers fited in gold and blue

are drinking a heated rosewater

next to the padded window,

sun and snow

souring down into the river...

The plough forward the hillside

says to the imaginative thinker [i]or[/i] writer "Fuck you."

The pink girls in the pear tree

are substituted

for ideas of heaven:

(The local governor in liquor on plum wine

says that the making

of lines in stave was first

learnt from turning back

the plough in a small field.) I vociferate

"What shit." I think it's all

measures of breath mocking us

while we chase

the crazed bleeding

over the horizon

into an unruffled stranger village

beyond parenthesis.

No narrowing road -to the North. Maybe

a passage of light

described here at lives devoted to the mustard gloriole

of the fallen pears that are not unlike

the black teeth of the river's chaps

Like emperors

it throbs around an average value.

Learn that it is all uncertain. however these pink girls

in their pear tree will be forgiven.

...

Home