Crag Hill

We think a form of our thinking led

Admire his brilliant insight
into the recognized,
process of flint.

Ideas now considered
the latest wait
for mules to pass.

He was only twenty years old,
a military pistol upbringing.

They browsed
the low solid woman,
munching humane values

and a soft discrimination.

 

 

“Love is just the language of thinking?”

“But it doesn’t feed you.”

The mailman dismounted Hegelianism and, from his pocket,
snatched up all the Germans in harmony. They had a ball.

I knew it to be water–earthier, not so afraid–and stood upon the shore.

Keys chittered in their cages.

The lake was a long oval, fragments of newsprint, urine.

I listened for sound cut off, curtains.

 

 

Under our care willingly to know

This objective was alien,
cloth habits seeming to glow,
making a sound they cloaked.

Felt virtuous, like a volunteer, a culture.

He imagined startling his certainty under his arm,
down and down to bring up in the bowels
the evolution of flatness and depth.

 

 

At Public Ceremonies

Morning carried into crowds, along with music.
The weatherless inside air.

He felt years of detailed but quite fragmentary real life.
“Cutting into the tree, I am unworthy–”

Saturated with water the brother had a bitter flavor.
Winds and storms prove navigators.

Black spiders lie in practice?
I discovered a hairy bee by the throat,
the bee’s sting very proud, sure of its death.

 

 

Foolish to deny

He was cold nature newly arisen in that image.
A new movement sent the Marxian system
to living out a pleasant concept
of light reflected against the plans.

All its social flow opened up torrential
in the philosophy of white, thick steam.
In that way–quick movement–closely interconnected,
he rose above the cold metal, other face.

I knew an Irish laborer who when spring came
weighed down by grief.
They find dumb flowing in fields.
It was said when fatal illness severely upbraided him,

the very spot in his midnight wander did not attend
the agony where the cruel words plead.

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