his simple dilating idea rose from tossing snow cauldron, with word webbed to inkling news, or potions of debate, or other odd scattering expanses. we take our care. the winds from ardent closure surround vocables and present. we are tired and yet, true to the something, we sing insular or transit. then questions, like dread opinions. then stones on the road. then the road itself, which is snow torn. we don't care if the snow melts into flowers, we only need a new colour now. and it arrives, bending present light differently, like willing trees to integrate. they will, we will, and the clouds will disperse as unions of rain forests. the singularity resumes with a notion of gusts. spring is in the offing but we are unsure what an offing is. such natural recension in the theory of barns opens a door, the barn fills with light. Whitman saw this years ago, now it is our turn. is that then the nature of poems? let questions sneak into the gloom, and poems pull their share. we are thus given voice, simply. when the poem ends, more can be started...
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