Do frogs play squirrel?
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Grey clouds,
a broad white smile
Overnight and forever
Abundance knows no limitsto its gratitude, to its praise.They have not forgottenwhen things were otherwise.Their faces shine.With all this, their eyes are bright;Here, now.
See this whitish sheet – now mellowing to a shade
two lovers whose whole air of innocencemakes them angelic, as if their ardent gazejoined souls not bodies;though those bodies, beautiful, transparent,she all gauze, her dressmoved by the lightest breath of air as if it wouldreturn her to the air; her breasts, to innocence itself;he, every muscle of proud chest under pleated jerkinjoining his dancing legs…
Those who’ve seen one, all give differing accounts;
But the collected book of sightings –that’s hairs on the back of the neck stuff.One detail, though, they all agree– it came at just the right time;although they did not know it at the time;but time brought truth; as truth brought time.The place they saw it– now that was surely a surprise;and so they wonderhow…
We asked ourself a question
it was are poems about the poetor about poetryor about neitheror about bothand now we had asked this questionwe had to answer it and we saidif poetry raises all these questionsthe answer must be simplyyes
If the words are good and true,
fires and fills; informs the heart;the heart, the chest and lungs;the lungs, the unhesitating throat;space fills the head and voice:and then, no longer pupil,but the teacher of the world;hearing from the centre of that soundthat sound itself may bring about all things.