Manifest

Sir star, Herr Lenz, white season body master snapping masts in half, absent winds’ workmanship: what window will I look you through, what brook, stream creaking past fretwork weeds, clouds in the context of cold? Lord knot to be untied, skiff hard alee ill winds: a hiss of wish and cinders and I am warm, crossing dazed oceans by hand to sow the doubtful sea with drought. Mine of rain and seize and sluice, you change your mind again, a rage for green waves’ open vowels, undrinkable. No talking to the weeds, no talking with the snow.