Needing to go separate along my green homings barefoot to the thud of fruit falling solitaire calling my compass, lodestar glinting upmountain hemmed in with pineneedles canopied with sunsets flaming me steeds to stride across sky on; world softening to mist mornings shaking open blue tablecloths for me to write big and brief on.
If we, as we are, are dust, and dust, as it will, rises, Then we will rise, and recongregate In the wind, in the cloud, and be their issue,
Things in a fall in a world of fall, and slip Through the spiked branches and snapped joints of the evergreens, White ants, white ants and the little ribs.
I like it when Achilles Gets killed And even his buddy Patroclus - And that hothead Hector - And the whole Greek and Trojan Jeunesse doreeIs more or less
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