the open, rote, sirening--
itsa stuff of in
a stuff of
gone turning
it opens in there a whisper
& through the walking thinking, which walks, one sees a glowing
meaning, always out of the away
a bit lucite or luck-like, it
hasa banana that it had been after,
or before, whichever works, & why not
by singing whisper
we, the kissed part coming apart growing
& coming (a jade sill in the moot said blue)
which ancient mows we caught-like, & in
a caught-like silent, the raids of trying and their upper their want from which jades
the same typeface the same camp the same fielded whisper-beam brightening all
that wal-mart has done for us-- a nucleic beet’s
re-numbering of consciousness, its hallowed call,
its bare poles,
its reviewers and stoners,
its coyotes, defining possibility
plunking it down like a grown up.
The same applies to Boston Harbor.
