description
Fundamentally we do not exist. Compare Nature in our being: the light which spirals in to shape our hands shapes the motion of Her grace, and spills dawn, and noon, and evening light into our bodies shaping, Her radiance, and whirls our legs in stars, in bright stars, Her elegance; and our looks, like blocks projecting: black black black black black
Even the eyes transcend a momentary cause… a haze, as if the vast boundlessness of fields were her. (It would seem so) The way the bedclothes slid away and left her body bare, a peach-touched texture, nonspecific, gaining softer against the soft lit air, or how the greenery and sky uplifts her hair, caressing softly there and there. She, like an Atmosphere of Land in part, ...
Where from did all our distortions form but from sediment of light that heavens could not quantify a place with places qualified be controlled. So dripping down, this light, the scene thats showing from it's washed out leaf fringes, to the concrete columns edged and etched, then smeared that way- and loss with depth - we try and we retrace our way up.
(I wrote this while in a joking manner.) History plays the minor role in poems, as do the page and words on the page are not the same. If than, then I sit and pick my nose to know that words did not matter so; but let my thoughts run wild with the naked man that doesn't need clothes for support.