staring into certainty delivers Gilgamesh. way back, in the seed stars, new moons conveyed sensation. these moons sow importance, all theory as functional distrait. thus time campaigns in a mobile document, making. poem wins in moon sense, the moon of person. person is poet, or likely story. tendered words or tenderness, applied in a mass, sweat the details. mass is solidly present in terms of energy. a poem makes energy, if words wear weight. when we wait on words, thru years in which stars are berries, leaves, dull roots, and bulbs, then the stars accept. we have stars, then. Gilgamesh arrives. a bending of peace, in the laity of light. then the survival of words includes the making of their comets. their comets infect each avenue of meaning, the orbit round the implicated sun. while the sun tosses gamma sabotage, or what's that other term, reasonable women and men jot down their latest asseverations. they have years to be new. a cluster of forgotten stars then burst, tho Orion remains. in the end, easy expectations complete the picture, but that is not poetry anymore.
It begins with a scanning of light, a settlement of words. The lightly fracture of Bird sound begins in the office of seeing. Not sentiment but sense, as cool as Green in the Early days. Pasture resists nonpasture, no one Refers to none. All remains including nothing. Morning Is belief and there simply there. Tides go freshly to the point.
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