People are just names inverted by numbers into cause and effect. So claimed the aspect of intelligence, taxonomic to the heart. The world causes glitters in the sky, which are timeless, and we call them stars. Those stars are hefty enough, reflected on the waters of Lake Chargoggagoggmanchauggagoggchaubunagungamaugg, near enough to Worcester to be the zest of ocean. Who in the post-glacial days clustered so many letters together, and for what peace? Spillage from existing facts. Graciously, the poets eye the task: to make poetry safe for facts. Our Charles Olson started somewhere, plain American fuddle for the best of reasons. Grace to be born and live as variously as possible, states a rock somewhere else. Earth is a minor plantation. Frank O'Hara meets Elizabeth Bishop in a rickshaw, then everything returned East.
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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