from the mouth of foxglove
the silent
holy        blue of everything

pooling & rushing

with the pine grove &
its drifting verbs of hazel

(your life appears to you in a
gleaming of Delphic day)
where
I, witness of red and venom,
spill over with the evening

all animal body & old gloom

the vague
yellow stain of summer

staring dead-eyed into all
sorts of nothingness

but love,
but love,

I descend again
into the hands of my master

everywhere my true meaning
lost

while dawn slips into summer’s
river with seaserpent eyes

the blue
the blue
the vespery blue

all falls in place by the hawthorn
& the ever-holding of holy breath
where
fragments of red reveal weather,
& the ancient earthen wound

let us pass onward,
not venturing where phantoms are -smakka–bagms 

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