torn up turnips turn

circles in the dark

trying to eff

the ineffable

not seeing that they can’t see

not not seeing that they can

ask one:

I      (

as

you can see

)

have not

from the throne of solitairity

someone proffers souls’ tomato

nourishing and red and sharp and sweet

the pasture is burning

and has been for a while

all the shit that isn’t

manure on fire

the grasses cry out

for a while

the grasses cry out

for all the shit that’s isn’t

the grasses cry out

for an audible

cry

and in the midst of

all the shit of isn’t

breath became dung

behold the mystery of care

for cares

of grass

—of pain for the plight of plants

the strange holiness of holiness

becoming grass and of grass

combusting into breath

the air is the soil and the grass

eats it and yet breathes

it still

logarithm of my eye:

a diaphanous canopy dappled green and blue

veers off,

curves like gravity (weightless,

each)

base cradle of offering

naturally the road runs off

cracks in the asphalt

trees against the sky

the wind moves like someone

you wanted to see

the sun burns down on

the sun in the

blue burns down on

the sun

in the blue

the sun burns down

crickets are going even

in the midday shade

a Euler of years isn’t so long

no longer than today

rest in this entry

the doorframe of the world

(it stands astride an old logging road)

a wider world than we

enjoy the berries of buried

no log in my side today

I log in and log the log in my eye,

biding in Dionysus’s diocese

(the forest for the logs)

these records rewrite

the ship, Theseus’s this

this—

that is everything

and has everythed

and will everyth

(these timbers bode embers)

the wreath of all

wreathed around

all wrath for all

wreathing everything

death dead into life on a log

to die a log

together we degauss tutus

to bid aubade

together we dance like Degas’s

to become analog

creatures of consequence

to become together

we flip

the ship

of This

maker bows to made

I am not trying for pretty—

rather somethings that fit.

The child’s thinking pleasure,

fixing one block to the next.

The structure that emerges, surprises into focus and being,

impossible to have been.

The child’s mind much too wide,

the parents’ too knowing.

So much to reright, still.

maker make me

make me maker

Still, to reright so much—

too knowing. The parents’

mind too much the child’s. Wide

to have been impossible.

Being surprises into the structure, and that focus emerges

to block the next, fixing

one child’s pleasure. Thinking,

that fit’s rather something

pretty. Trying for I, not am.