Poured orbit, 0
Given nothing for
Cannot rest, but runs in countercurrents
that pax, that poverty of state—
As contorted as letters
To those who—come to comb rayed musics
Red eddies, desire as Swan, as swoon of dawn—
Earth & blood are even, because Divisible.
—a free word says Death or, better, death
Spokes convergent on no center. No place
but there are violins preceding violence.
A word is birthplace of the plural body.
As wide-eyed as wild-isled:
Accepted into vastly revolving ocean
that posture foaming to far pasture, to pure field.
Here, first person is maintained: an archaic device, somehow
Its living moment: relic of a movement unarriving.
Of if born of of, there is no information—
Age to come to calm
For a phrase = a fragile thread
O my Other, mother-throated One—
The groan as ground-tone is also known.
—chorus overboiling like cumuli—will be lifted from the sea.
From frees to free, the verbs do not agree.