A balance at the weight
Of one large yolk shines:
A branch of its light
Is Los Angeles—
Home of the world’s
Most glamorous feminism.
In this we are alike and far into a view we can’t quite make out maybe a falcon otherwise known as fulcrum prisms backwards and deep downs diddling tried deceiving us but we’re quickening to truth.
What has above got to do with Feminism? Pears pleasure. Hands pare. Spare Hands over heart-attack—art-attack—arterial investigation.
I am. You are. Are we? Reality doesn’t recognize itself. Identity contests mirrors. What am I or are you doing?
In hickory-burl he understands. Burundi seeps cortex: she weeps its un-enigmatic status. Paris fashion-week sweeps his mind to minding hemlines while pipelines pass legislation. Personally speaking those ones badly make their case. Writing personifies but personal’s not here; there is their question; that is the heir of an answer; Paradise is needn’t ask?
Bright star would were steadfast as political not rhyming to hypocritical. Bite a celebrity then let wind litter.
Reality is not reflection.
Seeds treeing styptic fruit foreground swallows loop hither-thither and swallow-tail butterflies. Were the Roman-wall colored fog to be seared-off you might see that city.
Reality is an “effort of affection.”
This garden doesn’t understand French. Haricot Vert vertex thinks one lolloping through; acid-rain shines ilex as ibex look me in the eyes.
It is wild to be close. If there’s a way to plant a date palm in a pituitary she wants to. She wants to. The sky turns blue. After more than three beers he’s ruddier than another. He’s another one of us—humans: we should be ashamed—our shit grows no trees, our feeding pollutes groundwater; getting where we’re going alone, listening to our own music, our tastes cede atmosphere. Peace is the air we’re after in the epic; the swart ship whistles. Spray lashes someone’s eyes; the waves are nettle-green. Picture yourself as a bridge, a rig on fire.
Love is true—several trillion
Degrees of attention. I do not
Want to commit suicide. John Donne
Probably wouldn’t like me were we
To meet; I eye his spine; I’m a world
Made punningly of elements. Tree
Tops make bottoms of us all. A small
Slice of foie gras would hit the spot.
Damn roaming charges: I want to call.