even though the sun doesn’t restore order
and nothing tastes like what it says it is
i like it anyway
that’s how i was explaining a joy
that wiffles across the rampant scenery
what i hope you find worthwhile to discern
sometime later i lie back in the stream
washing out my ears
disguising myself as a little waterfall
skipping again for now
the discussion whether we are all fruits
of an endless style
and whether pondgrasses
appalling in their vertiginous stillness
wait for the shadow of the pendulum to eclipse
the little strokes of the eye that reads them
let’s refuse for once the easy triumph
of registering and treat the fruit aisle
like a fucking buffet let’s treat everything
as what it offers to be
looting our living like some troubadours
concluding about poetry
in a controversy between geese
on the winter pond behind the fine arts building
so prophetic fires arrive
on a landscape you can picture
straining the gape of a world
that is offering all the time to be paradise
the sun with increasing frequency
walks over us again
luffing cedars overlook
the crumpled sea
the human being generally
helps falls runs
out of breath refuges
in emphasis
sadness blowing under its eyelids
unaware that real living actual lions
have deserted the savannah exhibit
and now parade in radiant consequence
toward the supermarket
everyone knows they’ll open
the butcher’s frostsweating
vitrines like a delorean