Writing: it’s the same thing except for time
the same spontaneous force minus the shock
plus that of having the words all together for once.

there is no reprieve in the field, nor in prose
no yellow       except the exact grass
nor transport

while the hill thins out
color hardens, cruel, adjectival,

the same iceberg under the skirts of the sentence.

. . .

in the stand of broom, we watch
the headlong flight of the very sharp and the very flock

this mix of perfect life and active silence
I invent its memory with the same stunned air
the same superb yellow

on this earth full of the tangible and the vertiginous
it’s the word that wants it all
that animist
the hook of orgasm, the grip

---------------------------

to note the ways in which the yellow broom is similar
in this marble moment
in this love engraved

with its definitions carved into the bark
austere, precise
and so warmly alive

there where it rustles, on the bridged slope
retracted by the acidic

. . .

“don’t tell me tales”
“tell me the truth”
as if the two diverged
and we weren’t always trying to come up with a single version

a version made impossible by language

by the autonomy of grammar

yellow even though yellow