Reason And Leisure
and then, the thing itself: fathoms ice sungloved by the separate nectars that drip and dry for the actual, this actual, and contact with the actual, folding onto its own pale outline. and the flight attendant says: Ginger ale, and the old woman says: Oh, I’m so sorry, and the old woman says: It’s what happens with a good book; you can't hear anything else. this summer the history of feelings roars through my neighborhood each step, and the drug store is sorry, we’re all so sorry, answering the telephone, keeping as an always gift those depths which stay obscure to one another, so sadly, but if we can’t grieve it… oh well. and mount rainier says: As it stands, having now presumed the scenario to be general, the glacial and the actual have acquainted, so hey, spare me your parallax. those eyelids, so swollen by signs that hold me always already hostage in the segmentary plane of your singular fiction, where i become the object of a loss, and there, at the interval, invert the absolute majesty of surface, hardened by glowing freeze and firs. surface brings no debt to any set of lips or orchestra, and is the echoing property of no argument lost, no chalk, no face in the moon, no parents’ stories from before our time, half of my shirts, and no aquarium either, no church parking lot, definitely no cassiopeia or impeccable silhouette, each instant being the actual sweetness of itself. and the actual, upsettingly, stays silent.