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White horses, tails high, rise from the cedar. Smoke brings the fat crickets, trembling breeze. Find that holy place, a promise. Embers glow like moon air. I call you back from the grasses. Wake me when sand pipers fly. They fade, and new sounds flutter. Cattails at sunrise. Hair matted by sleep. Sun on the meadow. Grey boughs lie tangled. The ground I was born to wants me to leave. I’ve searched everywhere to tell you my eyes are with the hazels. Wind swells through fences, drones a flat ache for hours. At night, music would echo from your womanless bedroom. Far down those bleaching cliffs, roses shed a torrent. Will you brush my ear? An ice bear sometimes lumbers west. Your life still gleams, the edge melting. I never let you know. You showed me and how under snow and darkness, the grasses breathe for miles.

I used to love the run-up to a storm, watching from the porch as the grown-ups hurried to bring things in, my mother rummaging through drawers for a flashlight, cursing: nothing was where it was supposed to be in our house. It can’t be so, but the only people I ever remember huddled in the basement were my mother and me, suspended in that eerie half-light like bats. We’ve just spent a week like this, my mother perched in a chair above the water keeping watch for the next bad thing. We were happy so sometimes she’d let the vigil rest, the sentry of her shoulders easing to a more receptive pose, a quarter moon, until something called her back to the watch, mother first no longer but this white, foremost light. You can read by it. You can see.

I used to think The mind essential in the body, even As stood the body essential in the mind: Two inseparable things, by nature equal And similar, and in creation’s song Halving the total scale: it is not so. Unlike and cross like driftwood sticks they come Churned in the giddy trough: a chunk of pine, A slab of rosewood: mangled each on each With knocks and friction, or in deadly pain Sheathing each other’s splinters: till at last Without all stuff or shape they ’re jetted up Where in the bluish moisture rot whate’er Was vomited in horror from the sea.

I wake and feel the fell of dark, not day. What hours, O what black hours we have spent This night! what sights you, heart, saw; ways you went! And more must, in yet longer light's delay. With witness I speak this. But where I say Hours I mean years, mean life. And my lament Is cries countless, cries like dead letters sent To dearest him that lives alas! away. I am gall, I am heartburn. God's most deep decree Bitter would have me taste: my taste was me; Bones built in me, flesh filled, blood brimmed the curse. Selfyeast of spirit a dull dough sours. I see The lost are like this, and their scourge to be As I am mine, their sweating selves; but worse.

I walk back—nowhere, under moonlight. The dogs look as if they are angels, the ones I never imagined, with drooling silvery rays and torn behinds, yes, glowing in a strange and excited phosphor, dancing out of rhythm, racing up trees, chasing snails. This is like a children's book. O, yes, the children with rectangle heads and sack stomachs. With the eyes of Da Vinci, sad and impish, meticulous as Ibn Khaldun and taciturn as Nietzsche, phlegmatic and bitter, when they speak they leave opalescent liquids on the grasses, stuttered under a half-erased mural of Arafat, or is it Sharon, wait, the children never speak, they nod their heads, they carry huge bundles strapped across their foreheads. They weep under newspapers and roll up their skirts and wash them in the gutters, ponds, if they find them, then they run to the sea. This is where we meet, on occasion, we make up stories, we remember fruits and produce as if blessed by the plutonium blasts. "Remember the pears, they were so green, and the avocados, like guitars, honey-golden, and the asparagus, like a lion's rainy mane, and . . ." Our mouths water. Their mouths water, I am used to these stories. I am used to the land barren, bitten and aflame with lies. I am used to our faces in this new wild dispassionate light. I learned this from my musician friends, from years waging futile wars with poetry until I could not think of anything else.

I walk’d the other day, to spend my hour, Into a field, Where I sometimes had seen the soil to yield A gallant flow’r; But winter now had ruffled all the bow’r And curious store I knew there heretofore. Yet I, whose search lov’d not to peep and peer I’ th’ face of things, Thought with my self, there might be other springs Besides this here, Which, like cold friends, sees us but once a year; And so the flow’r Might have some other bow’r. Then taking up what I could nearest spy, I digg’d about That place where I had seen him to grow out; And by and by I saw the warm recluse alone to lie, Where fresh and green He liv’d of us unseen. Many a question intricate and rare Did I there strow; But all I could extort was, that he now Did there repair Such losses as befell him in this air, And would ere long Come forth most fair and young. This past, I threw the clothes quite o’er his head; And stung with fear Of my own frailty dropp’d down many a tear Upon his bed; Then sighing whisper’d, “happy are the dead! What peace doth now Rock him asleep below!” And yet, how few believe such doctrine springs From a poor root, Which all the winter sleeps here under foot, And hath no wings To raise it to the truth and light of things; But is still trod By ev’ry wand’ring clod. O Thou! whose spirit did at first inflame And warm the dead, And by a sacred incubation fed With life this frame, Which once had neither being, form, nor name; Grant I may so Thy steps track here below, That in these masques and shadows I may see Thy sacred way; And by those hid ascents climb to that day, Which breaks from Thee, Who art in all things, though invisibly! Shew me thy peace, Thy mercy, love, and ease, And from this care, where dreams and sorrows reign, Lead me above, Where light, joy, leisure, and true comforts move Without all pain; There, hid in thee, shew me his life again, At whose dumb urn Thus all the year I mourn.

I walked in the house on the flat aspect of the wood I took rectangular instruction of the wood when I walked I turned at the wall and on the flat I moved steadily unimpeded, not tumbling, climbing or short of breath. I walked in ease on the flat. Something electric charged into our account and zinged out of it, pre-instructed and paid for the house. I felt house on my heel then instep and toe. I had a bad foot and I paid to get it fixed so I could walk here. I paid for the house and I paid for the foot that touches it. I paid to be directed rectangularly and down a hall. I curved my body to direct my waste through a hole. I am helped and paying for it. all of me exchanged, housing exchange. I saw us standing up in the world. And we sank into exchange vibrating transparency like a sea nettle afloat in the night sea the edges of the sea-veil tensed slapping above, visible when the wind crevassed and doilied If there is a ceiling to exchange and above it sky I don’t can’t see it and I don’t know why I want it above my house which is crystalline gel edges because the whole world’s disappeared viewed as exchange I broke my arm and the window integrally to exchange. I paid someone to fix me and improve the window, triple-glazing it, and warmer I rebounded       knit in knit up. All parties to the event’s aftermath were paid. Suppose I did not go in pain to hospital, did not visit and revisit for x-rays, left the window smashed and sat here by it, stuck up among the crystalline and cold. I was painful and determined not to play, and with the other unemployed weighed — the ghostship sagged with holes. —So you want to be a thing outside exchange? Drain out the dying bath see what color you are? The coin changed hands identical      with a will to transact.

I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host, of golden daffodils; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretched in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance, Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. The waves beside them danced; but they Out-did the sparkling waves in glee: A poet could not but be gay, In such a jocund company: I gazed—and gazed—but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought: For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils.

I want to be near you | via nearness generally | an app "chance" rather than "skill" | determining the tax obligations of the feathers as | one falls into the pixel | on the white water | interlude. A grid is applied to the | field which dissolves into | the screen harmlessly beneath a summer storm. Brace. The silence that precedes an aperture opening | Left hands of right-handed engineers flensed skittish with false lines. These tears or weak areas | in crying fire are lined with a very transparent low weight enamel found in the company (from the Latin com-, "with", and panis, "bread") of other expressions | of space before choice under an ornamental plain. Since the location of paradise seems to be roughly that of Japan, a grid is applied | to the image from which the object has been extracted | and begins to spurt. As Emerson says, lyrical, not epical or even tragic | Suspension of certain clauses within the document is permitted when in cases of rebellion or the public safety may require it | The canvas may be folded in on itself 7 times. A sheet of melinex is | laid over the area of loss on the landscape | not the face | dolled by what it would release.

Game of Thrones A man is only worth what people say he is and those Starks are good stock. They’ll knee-deep it. They famish the craving they are fathered by. Manning the forestry of life, they are steadfast and sturdy. When pungent or cruel, they sauce the ache. Light folds them in two. What I want to say is,I would meet you upon this. Let me, too, carry the token of the world. Tell me the secret of what comes next, and then take me river       river        river