the idea is like a boat sliding by
read pearls, beginning to roll
internal cries of cliffs beginning to resemble the sea

the grass of passion decreases
on the basis of us, decreases

My nails clinging to her black silk net
She drops me, and my forehead strikes
The enchantment of slabs.

Even if the mountain burns itself out, even if the survivors slaughter one another—shepherd, sleep. No matter where. I shall find you.

By a lane of irises and scarlet mud
going down to the spring to dry it up...

There remains only the flutter
Of minute desirable death-pangs
In the high garden once more locked.

              is that we should begin in transit,                      in or near a vessel,
as we do here        and then we leave this place             and
the skittering quality that follows                                        festive scene, song

                Pop Imaginary
returns                                                         and ascending gray

In Rogier van der Weyden's Annunciation
The Holy Ghost enters the Virgin's chamber
As a dove gliding on a beam of light—

First the choughs
in a band of three:
red beaks lit