Summer; —Fatigue; —A Direction, Up; —and A Spreading Out Unlawed

1 —Yet  sitting  with so little blood  leaving me to cause  this  fatigue ,  on top of the picnic table my ankles are now over its precipice    of at  the  air  over  its edge   over even the hollow circular   and flat  thin stalks and grass blades  growing fast with so much speed no hurry I   can see  beneath  my feet  kicking into the summer air   ——                              looking up   from   underneath  in  front  of  the  on- rushing speed  of  a   cloud   throwing its   first   thrust-shudders over the top edge  of  the  mountain   like      I      thought a spreading out of  the    unlawed —    up  from    underneath    its white   cloud   edge ,   especially harvested  by  all these  fir  and  spruce  and  aspen and  pine top   edges   jutting fragrant fierce with hot smell  ( spill- outs   of their    seeds  ) growing     the   indent- ing of   the    mountain   in their evergreen to blue tone - scented  modulatings   , taperings   , moorings which the now  big  cloud   passing over also  harvests push - ing   some   kind of   lawlessness 2 along           —  —  (  up    from my   feet  I’ve    stopped  kicking  ,  or  now  forget  to  kick  , underneath the   great white  cloud    moving at  varying   and   breakneck speeds   —   Which  I imagine is    unlawed             though   I   am  not moving   —                         imagine moving     out   from     its   nature            but   it is  not    a law    passing   over    the air   waves   the satellite  dish   the meta- llic  meticulous   signals  ,  ,  )  —  I   am losing neither  a little    nor    a  lot of   blood     —             over  the  dropped - down  landscape  thundering  along   its    applause sounds   its  green  to   brown   to   amber  under- neath   feathering  along  its before-fatigue intricacy , which   harvests  the let    me come closer   in — & the   sun    ,        a windfall  enabling   so   much   of  it roving     the   mountain  from  almost  its  very  beginning   to its very  present  height   ,      the world  surges as    world    against  ,       then      dives out   from   into        air and the  lightflow at its fast one   & only    speed     all   smashing  into what   looks   like  a  lumpy  eternity  ,   me  and  the  black summer fly    in its    engines  ,   a  repose   in   the windflow and in  its bumping     up against  ? And  in its  bumping  up   against . Though    ,    I think it    is    also mortal    ,    of moving   ,   of    collision , of  chance encounter until their    currents  ,  until   their wakes let you     in   ,    let     you     through    —